


Not All Treasure is Silver and Gold

by CelestialVoid



Series: Sailing On Dark Waters [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean, Angst, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Derek, BAMF Lydia, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Canon Genders, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Drunk Peter, Drunk Stiles, Eventual Romance, F/M, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Manbun!Derek, Mutually Unrequited, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirate Chris Argent, Pirate Derek, Pirate Isaac, Pirate Lydia, Pirate Peter, Pirate Scott, Romance, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Stiles is not a girl, Unrequited Love, Violence, You cannot judge me, but it falls through, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 41,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8374741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: When the son of Beacon Hills’ Governor, Stiles, is kidnapped by cursed, treasure-hunting pirates under the darkness of night, chaos falls over the port of Beacon Hills.Enraged by the fact that the royal navy and the military forces are not doing anything to save Stiles, the local blacksmith, Derek, is forced to ally himself with the infamous pirate, Peter Hale, and sail across the seas to save the Governor’s son.





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags and characters will be added as the series progresses for two reasons. The first is, spoilers - I hate them. And the second reason is because this is a work in progress and I haven't completely cemented the idea of what I want and who I want where, so that'd be something that happens as I work on it.

The world was engulfed in a blanket of impenetrable grey fog. The mist rolled through the air, leaving thin droplets of water across any surface it came across: rock, wood, skin or otherwise.

Among the thick veil was the drifting sound of a child’s voice, a soft melody that drifted out through the air. It was quiet, hushed, as if the young boy who was singing were muttering it under his breath in order to go unnoticed.

 

_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me._

_We pillage and plunder, we rifle and loot,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

The large ship cut through the dark water, rippling tides dissolving into foamy white waves. High above the mast the wind whipped about the flag, the fabric cracking in the breeze. Upon the rich blue fabric was the brightly painted crest of the royal army.

Aboard, men busied themselves cleaning the decks, surveying the area, tying ropes and going about their assigned duties. Among the bustle, a young boy barely breaching his teen years, wove his way through the crowd and made his way up to the bow.

His eyes darted from man to man, his lean fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his jacket as he continued to sing under his breath,

_We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot._

_Drink up, me hearties, yo ho…_

_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me._

 

“It’s be best if you’d stop singing,” a low voice said from behind the boy, making him jump with surprise.

He span around to look at who was talking.

It was the young cabin boy, Scott, who hung his head when the startled child caught his gaze. His dark eyes were filled with fear as he wearily glanced across the unsteady waters, blinded by the fog. He looked out of the corner of his eye at the startled child.

“There are cursed men who sail these waters… Pirates,” Scott whispered, turning his eyes back to the soaked deck that he scrubbed despite the redundancy of his action. He wiped at the olive skin of his face with the worn sleeve of his shirt. “You wouldn’t want to call them down upon us, would you?”

The startled boy shook his head, his amber eyes wide with fear. His chestnut brown locks were jostled by the movement, shaking free droplets of water. The wet strands clung to the pale skin of his damp forehead as he swallowed hard, his lips quivering around silent words. He opened his mouth to speak when a larger man stormed across the decks towards the boys.

“Master McCall,” Captain Henry Tate growled warningly.

His piercing blue eyes turned from Scott to Stiles, who braced himself against the railing of the bow as he tried to get as far away from the intimidating man as possible.

Tate’s gaze snapped back to the cabin boy.

“That will be all,” he dismissed.

“He was singing about pirates,” Scott said, pointing an accusing finger at Stiles. “It’s bad luck to be singing about pirates in these waters. Especially when we can’t find our way out of this fog. Mark my words.”

“Consider them marked,” Tate muttered. “Now, be on your way.”

“Yes, sir,” Scott replied, bowing his head respectfully as he scurried away. He stopped a few feet away and continued to scrub at the deck.

The Governor joined them, standing proud in his heavily adorned coat, despite the extra weight from the water or the lashing of the mist against his tired face.

“I think it would be exciting to meet a pirate,” Stiles muttered.

Tate turned his eyes on the boy. “Think again, Master Stilinski. They’re vile and dissolute creatures, the lot of them. I intend to see to it that each and every man who sails beneath that wretched pirate flag or bears the branding mark of a pirate shall get what he deserves: a short drop and a sudden stop.”

Stiles frowned in confusion, glancing over at the cabin boy who stood within eavesdropping range.

Scott took a hold of the bandanna around his neck and mimed a noose being fastened around his neck. Then, all of a sudden, he dropped his head: a dead man hanging.

Stiles gasped involuntarily, turning his shocked gaze back to Captain Tate.

“Then they can visit the dear Davy Jones’ locker that they sing about,” the man mused.

“Captain Tate,” Governor Stilinski said calmly, taking a step forward to stand by the man. “I appreciate your dedication and reverence; your commitment to the crown shows no bounds. But I am concerned about the effect this subject will have on my son. Maybe one day he’ll join your ranks, but, for now, he is still a child.”

“My apologies, Governor,” Tate replied.

“Actually, I find it all quite fascinating,” Stiles piped up, taking a step closer to his father.

Governor Stilinski sighed and wiped at his face with the soft cotton handkerchief. “That’s what concerns me.”

The man wasn’t elderly, only just breaching his third decade of life, but the position of power and duties to the crown, his wife’s illness and death, and the constant effort of trying to keep up with his son had all aged him terribly.

“Stiles,” the man said, keeping his voice calm and composed. “We will be arriving in port soon and beginning our new life in Beacon Hills. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could compose ourselves and act as is expected of men of our stature?”

Stiles knew what he was saying: ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if _Stiles_ would compose himself and act as is expected?’

“Yes, father,” Stiles replied before countering the argument with, “but, as you said, I am not yet a man.”

Before his father had the chance to scold the boy, Stiles turned and looked over the railing at the water that crashed against the hull.

“I still think it would be exciting to meet a pirate,” Stiles muttered to himself, quiet enough that no-one would hear him.

Something stirred the rippling pattern of the waves.

The fog peeled back to reveal the solid object among the cold sea. It struck the hull with a quiet thud before being towed away by the rippling waves.

Stiles leant further over the edge, peering down into the depths below to see what it was.

“Stiles,” his father called. “Come away from the edge. You’ll fall in.”

“There’s a boy down there,” Stiles announced. He span around to his father and Captain Tate, noticing the shock in their faces. Stiles pointed over the edge of the boat and down at the floating body. “Down there. There’s a boy in the water.”

Captain Tate rushed to the edge, leaning forward to look where Stiles was pointing.

He span around and rushed back onto the main deck, howling, “Man overboard!”

The crew echoed his cries, fetching hooks and nets and climbing down the rope ladders that covered the sides of the ship.

Stiles hurried after them, watching intently as they fished the boy’s body from the water. Governor Stilinski leant over the edge, helping the crew lift the young boy’s body aboard. They carefully set him down on the deck.

Stiles took a step closer, watching as his father held his hand before the boy’s mouth.

“He’s still breathing,” the man announced.

The crew let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Where did he come from?” Captain Tate asked, casting his eyes towards the sea. His question was answered as he laid his eyes upon the flotsam that left a distinct trail across the rippling waves, drawing the man’s attention to the burning wreckage in the distance.

Tate held out his hand and a member of the crew passed him a large bronze telescope. He peered through the lenses at the skeleton of a hull that was engulfed in flames. Atop of the mast was a British flag, laying limp against the wooden rod as the fire reached up for it.

“Ready the boats and search for survivors,” The captain instructed. “Haul the cargo aboard, perhaps we can salvage some of it.”

“What happened?” Governor Stilinski asked, joining the captain.

“An explosion by the look of it,” the man replied. “It might have been one of the powder kegs; merchant vessels are always heavily armed or stocked for trade.”

“Lot of good it did them,” Scott muttered.

The men turned their questioning glanced to the boy.

“Everyone’s thinking it,” Scott said. “I guess I’m just going to have to say it. Pirates.”

Stiles gasped at the word, his heart skipping a beat excitedly.

“There is no proof of that,” Tate disbanded. “It might have been an accident, we may never know. Search for survivors and salvage what you can,” he repeated.

The captain turned and took a few steps towards his quarters before he halted and turned back.

“Fetch your arms and take the jackets off the cannons,” he instructed. He fixed his piercing blue eyes on Scott who shrunk beneath is glare. “Just in case.”

Governor Stilinski took a step closer to his son.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get his boy below deck. He’ll be warm down there and it’ll keep the deck clear for the men.”

Stiles nodded, watching as his father scooped the drenched boy up in his arms and carried him to the ladder. Stiles followed downstairs, his eyes focused intently on his father’s actions as he wrapped a blanket around the stranded boy’s shoulders and laid him in one of the hammocks.

“Keep an eye on him, Stiles,” his father instructed. “He is in your charge while I assist the crew.”

Stiles nodded.

His father climbed up the ladder and disappeared above deck.

Stiles strolled over to the boy’s side, peering over the edge of the hammock to get a better look at him.

Now up close, Stiles noticed just how young the boy was – a teenager who was only a few years older than the boy. His skin held its colour – a lovely tone of gold – despite having been frozen in the sea. He had raven black hair that was cropped short and sharp cheekbones. Even despite his pubescence, he had a strong jawline and rosy pink lips.

Stiles couldn’t help himself.

He reached forward and gently brushed a strand of hair away from the boy’s face.

Bright eyes flew open.

The boy grabbed Stiles by the wrist.

Stiles tried to pull away but froze.

The boy was scared – as scared as Stiles was.

And yet, Stiles couldn’t help but be drawn towards the colour of the boy’s eyes: his irises shifted in the light, from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused.

“My name is Stiles Stilinski,” he said as calmly as he could.

“Derek Hale,” the boy replied, his voice shaking slightly.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Stiles assured him, taking a step closer. “I’m here to watch over you, Derek.”

Derek nodded, still a little confused. He weakened his grip on Stiles’ wrist, giving the boy enough confidence to take another step forward and cup his hands around Derek’s.

Derek blinked heavily and laid back in the hammock. His lips quivered slightly as he drew in shaky breaths, but they quickly settled as he slipped back into his unconscious state.

The dull light of a nearby lantern reflected off something, the glare striking Stiles’ eyes. He leant forward, noticing how Derek’s shirt had fallen open because of his movements. A thin gold chain sat atop of his exposed olive flesh.

Stiles reached around the boy and carefully slipped it over his head, trying not to wake Derek. He held it up to the light, noticing the heavy medallion that weighed it down. Stiles carefully took it between his fingers, turning it towards the glow of the torch as he made out the engraved ridges of an Aztec design, it was an unmistakable one: a skull and cross bones. The hollow black eyes stared back at Stiles.

The words fell past the boy’s lips before he could stop them.

“You’re a pirate.”

There was a shuffle of footsteps and the thud of boots on the ladder rungs.

Stiles acted quickly. He looped the chain over his head and hid the medallion beneath his shirt.

“Did he speak?” Tate asked as he made his way across the lower deck.

Stiles span around.

“His name is Derek Hale,” he answered. “That’s all he has said.”

Captain Tate nodded.

“Very good,” the man muttered before turning to leave. “Your father is asking for you.”

Stiles sighed, glancing over his shoulder at Derek before following the captain up to the deck. He fingered the necklace through his shirt, feeling the grooves and ridges that moulded the golden piece. As he stepped up onto the deck, his eyes were instinctively drawn to the horizon.

He froze.

The veil of fog seemed to peel back only for him, revealing the dark shape of a ship. It looked as if it were in ruins – planks of wood missing from its hull and black sails, full of holes – but somehow it stayed afloat. Above the crow’s nest was a flag, the unmistakable Jolly Roger. The white skull stared back at him with dark eyes and a cynical grin and for a second Stiles swore he heard it say something, something like: ‘I know’.

 

Stiles jolted upright in his bed, gasping for air. His lips quivered, desperate for the cool relief of the wisps of air that escaped him. His eyes darted about the familiar surroundings of his bedroom, the dull glow of the early morning light lit up the space.

There was no-one there.

He was alone.

He was safe.

He let his shoulders drop and his body sag as he weakly collapsed back against his plush mattress. His breathing was broken and rugged as he tried to calm himself. He squirmed slightly at the cold sweat that dripped across his body.

He considered rising from the bed, but it was too early to wake the staff and ask for them to ready him a bath. So, instead, he lay motionless. He tried to distinguish memory from dream, tried to find where the images of his childhood stopped and the nightmares began.

He sat upright again, pulling black the heavy blankets as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rose to his feet and scurried towards the thick oak writing desk that sat in the corner of his room. He pulled the key from the nearby hook and slid it into the ornate bass lock on one of the drawers. He unlocked it and pulled it open, emptying the small space of its contents: leather bound notebooks, loose leafs of paper, a couple of charcoal drawings that the boy had done of the townspeople, and whatever else was in there.

He paused, looking down at one of the charcoal drawings that caught his eye.

It was a drawing of the blacksmith’s apprentice, shirtless and sweaty from slaving over the hot furnaces. He was out the back of his shop, dressed only in his pants and stringing something up – Stiles couldn’t remember what.

He couldn’t help but think of how much Derek had changed over the years: his golden skin translucent in the sunlight, his gorgeous aventurine eyes forever changing their colour, and his muscles toned and taut from years of work.

Usually, Stiles would give his drawings to the people he drew, but this one was different; he would never work up the urge to give this one away. He wasn’t sure if it was because he feared the subject’s judgment or if he simply loved it too much to part with it. Regardless, he kept it stowed away in secret.

He forced himself to draw his eyes away from it, hiding it among the other items he had kept in the drawer.

He reached to the back of the small desk drawer and slid his finger beneath the small divot in the bottom panel. He pulled up the panelling to reveal the medallion he had kept hidden since the day he and his father had arrived in Beacon Hills.

He pulled it from its hiding place, running his fingers across the grooves and ridges.

He returned the drawer to its place.

There was a soft knock at the door.

Stiles jumped out of his skin. He quickly looped the chain around his neck and tucked the medallion beneath his shirt. He scurried towards the door and opened it slightly.

“Good morning, Master Stilinski, I hope I did not wake you,” greeted the young maid.

“It’s alright,” Stiles assured her. “I was already awake.”

“Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

“Some warm water for a sponge bath would be appreciated,” Stiles replied.

“Of course, sir.” The young maid curtseyed and scurried away.

“Thank you,” Stiles called after her.

A little while later, the maid returned with a bowl of warm water and some towels. She set them down in the corner of the room and pulled the screens across. She curtseyed again and left without a word.

Stiles thanked her again and stripped down. He began to pat himself down, feeling a sense of relief as he routinely cleaned himself and washed away the layers of sweat that soaked his skin.

A little while later, as he patted himself dry, there was another knock at the door.

“Stiles,” his father called, peering through the door. “Are you decent?”

“No,” the boy replied. “But I am behind the divider.”

There was a shuffle of footsteps as his father and a maid entered.

“I have something for you,” his father said. “Something to wear today.”

“What’s the occasion?” Stiles asked suspiciously, reaching around the panels of the divider.

“Does there need to be an occasion?” his father countered.

Stiles took the box from the maid with a sweet smile, but his pleasant expression dropped as he met his father’s gaze. He stepped back behind the panels and opened the box. Inside, beneath layers of thin, sky blue tissue paper, was an elegant navy blue military-style jacket with gold trim down the lapels, around the collar and around the cuffs. Down the sides were two rows of elegant, gold buttons. He ran his hands across the soft velvet.

He lifted it out of the box and dressed himself, putting on a crisp white shirt, a golden silk vest and the high collared blue jacket.

“Although,” his father said after a moment of silence. “I was hoping you would wear it to today’s ceremony.”

“Ceremony?” Stiles asked.

“Captain Tate’s promotion ceremony,” his father confirmed.

Stiles peeked out from behind the screen and growled, “I knew it.”

“Or, rather, _Commodore_ Tate,” Governor Stilinski corrected himself. “A fine gentleman, don’t you think?”

Stiles hummed, not wanting to give his father the pleasure of a response.

“Surely a man of such stature would raise his children to be of the same manner.”

Stiles remained silent.

“His daughter fancies you, you know?”

Stiles leant out and shot a dirty glare at his father.

“Don’t do that,” Stiles warned.

“Do what?” his father asked, pretending to play the innocent party.

“You try and hold a conversation while derailing into the conversation of your expectation of me to propose to Malia Tate,” Stiles hissed. “I am sick and tired of it. I will propose to her when, or even _if_ , _I_ feel like it. The more you try to force me into it, the less likely it is going to happen.”

“How does it look?” his father asked, abruptly changing the subject to avoid confrontation.

Stiles buttoned up the shiny pearl cufflinks and tugged at the collar. It was tight, suffocating.

“It’s difficult to say,” Stiles panted, swallowing hard.

“I hear that it’s the latest fashion in London,’ Governor Stilinski mused.

“Well people in London must have learnt not to breathe,” Stiles growled, tugging at the collar with frustration.

“Governor, a man has come to pay you a visit,” the doorman announced.

Stiles heard both of them leave.

Stiles gave up fretting with the collar, accepting that he’s just going to be uncomfortable for the rest of the day. He sighed and fastened the buttons of his jacket around his waist. He tugged at the jacket to straighten it and made his way out towards the foyer.

He paused, his eyes falling on the young man who stood in the doorway. He was dressed as properly as he could be, in his cleanest shirt and an ash-grey suit jacket. His raven-black hair had grown long over the years, it was now tied back from his face in a small bun.

“Ah, Mr. Hale,” Governor Stilinski greeted. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Good day, sir,” Derek replied as properly as he could. He held out the sleek black leather case that he had held beneath his arm, offering it to the man. “I have the piece you ordered.”

Stiles’ father stepped forward and opened the brass locks on the case. Inside, sitting on the bright red velvet lining, was an elegant dress sword and a scabbard. Both the sword and its casing were beautifully designed with careful attention to detail.

Governor Stilinski lifted it out of the case and unsheathed it.

“The blade is folded steel with a seam of gold down the engraved groove of the blade. The handle has gold filigree laid into it. If I may…” He held out his hand and Stilinski returned the blade to him.

Derek held out his hand and balanced the sword on one finger at the point where the blade met the guard.

“It’s perfectly balanced,” Derek continued. “The tang is nearly the full width of the blade and the hilt which encases it is carved oak with a leather strapping for grip and comfort.”

“Impressive,” Governor Stilinski complimented. “Very impressive, Mr. Hale. Commodore Tate will be pleased, I’m sure. Do pass on my compliments to your master for another fine piece of work.”

Derek’s smile faltered slightly.

“Of course, sir. A craftsman is always please to hear his work is appreciated,” Derek replied.

With one swift movement, Derek tossed the blade into the air and caught it by the hilt. He slid it into the sheath and set it back in its case.

He offered the leather case to Governor Stilinski who took it gratefully.

Stiles took a step down the staircase, catching Derek’s attention.

Stiles returned his gaze, smiling at the young man.

Derek’s lips quivered slightly as he tried to speak, but his words failed him. He bit into his lip and swallowed hard.

“Stiles, you look dashing,” his father commented.

“Derek, it’s so good to see you again,” Stiles said, ignoring his father. “I had a dream about you last night.”

Derek looked surprised.

“Really?” he asked, the words falling from his lips before he had the chance to stop them.

“Stiles, that’s hardly appropriate-” his father started.

Stiles continued to ignore the man, his eyes focused on Derek as he continued, “About the day we met. Do you remember?”

“I could never forget it, Master Stilinski,” Derek confessed.

“Derek, how many times must I tell you to call me Stiles?”

“At least once more, Master Stilinski,” Derek replied. “As always.”

Stiles’ smile fell slightly, disappointed in Derek’s conditioned responses.

“Well said,” Governor Stilinski said proudly, reinforcing Derek’s discipline. “There’s a boy who understands proper manner and the distinction of class. Now, Mr. Hale, I’m sorry to cut this short, but we must be going.”

Derek took a step back and held the large front door open for the Governor and his son.

Stiles straightened his back, lifting his chin up and marching down the stairs and out the door.

“Good day, Mr. Hale,” Stiles farewelled, his voice was slightly cold as he walked on towards the carriage that waited.

The Governor followed his son, watching as the bell boy held open the door and his son climbed into the elegant black carriage. He farewelled Derek and followed his son into the cart, setting the sleek black case on the seat next to him.

As the door shut, Stiles could hear the faint trails of Derek’s voice as the breeze carried the man’s muttered words towards him. “Good day… Stiles.”

The boy bowed his head, hiding his soft rosy blush and sweet smile in the shadows that were cast across his face.

Governor Stilinski sat back in his seat, looking at his son almost condescendingly.

“I do hope you carry yourself with a bit more decorum and dignity in front of Commodore Tate and his daughter.”

Stiles huffed and sat back in his seat, turning his gaze towards the world beyond the window.

“After all,” his father continued, “it is only through his efforts that we have come to live in such a secure and civilised place.”

Stiles’ eyes surveyed the area. The town was one of lesser class, mainly infantry men who mingled among the streets that were full of clay and ash.

Stiles watched as children dressed in frail rags squealed with joy as they played in the muddy streets, pretending they were pirates and infantry men: chasing each other through the streets and down the alleys between the houses, fighting with sticks and holding mock trials and executions.

Those who were working were seen through windows, slaving over fires and workbenches as they tried to fulfil their duties.

Drunkards stumbled out of the tavern, staggering and swearing as they toppled onto nearby women. They ignored the protests of women as they pulled at their skirts or fondled their breasts through their corsets.

In the distance there were several gibbets hanging over the shoreline, hoisted up over the rocky arches that had fallen away from the rocky cliff face of the port of Beacon Hills. In them were the skeletal remains of the men who had been called pirates: caged in the gallows and set over the crashing water where they would either starve to death or be pecked to death by gulls, rats and ravens.

Before them was a thick wooden plaque with engraved letters, painted black to make the words visible. It read: PIRATES BE WARNED.

Stiles stared at it a little longer than he should have.

Stiles swallowed hard and snarled as he muttered under his breath, “Yes, ‘civilised’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I would have loved to write Stiles in a dress, I did want to stick to (at least some of) the cultural rules of the time while also keeping Stiles as a guy, and so Stiles' jacket is roughly based off of the design of this 1700s military jacket, http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9jOLRnPhLUE/TVV70cvcROI/AAAAAAAABZA/1mBOCB8Kytc/s1600/F2150-0A.jpg


	2. II

The calm waters lapped against the wooden planks of the hull, soaking the pale salt crystals that were embedded in the grains and dragging the ship down lower and lower beneath the surface.

The captain of the vessel had given up bailing water out of his leaking ship.

The breeze stirred the sails, the thick canvas crackling in the air as the main deck sank underwater. Atop of the crow’s nest stood a man, his bright eyes focused on the horizon. His light brown hair was thinning and was slicked back to reveal his firm expression and weary eyes. He wore his usual snarl, his pessimistic demeanour was ever prominent. A slight shadow was cast across his features by the trifold leather hat that sat upon his head.

He wore a pair of pants with the legs tucked into thick leather boots. The boots were worn and scarred by age and the hardship of their owner’s adventures.  Aside from that, he wore a thin cotton shirt, buttoned with little care – leaving some buttons undone to reveal his bare chest, and the rest were oddly buttoned in places. Over that, he wore a black vest and a thick coat, the lapels of which fluttered about his strongly built form. Around his slender waist was a thick leather belt that sported a sheathed cutlass, a small canvas bag full of coins, a sleek pistol and various other objects.

One hand was wound around the thick ropes of the rigging while the other held onto an old compass. The needle span about aimlessly, as if it were confused as to where it needed to point.

Peter turned his eyes to the gibbets as his ship passed the rocky crags.

“Poor sods,” he muttered under his breath. But any hint of remorse quickly dissolved from his composure as he smirked and said, “You shouldn’t have gotten caught.”

His eyes turned towards the port ahead.

The sinking ship – or, rather, a small sailboat no bigger than a fishing vessel – passed into the bay.

Peter stretched his leg out in front of himself, taking a step forward with perfect timing. He walked straight onto the boardwalk, not breaking his stride for a second.

A man at the end of the wooden walkway looked at him with an expression of shock and a hint of admiration. The harbourmaster straightened his back and made his way over to the newcomer. His eyes were fixed on the sinking ruins of the boat as he said, “If you were out sailing on the seas in that tub, you’re either incredibly brave or incredibly dumb.”

“It’s remarkable how often those two traits coincide,” Peter muttered.

The harbourmaster stopped him in his tracks. “It’s a shilling to use the dock space, and you’re going to have to give your name.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the wreck of his ship that sank beneath the surface of the water.

_Lydia’s going to kill_ me, he thought to himself.

He turned his gaze back to the harbourmaster with a cruel glare that quickly became an expression of disbelief.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Peter sighed.

“How about three shillings and you forget the name?” he asked, digging into the pouch and tossing the coins onto the man’s ledger.

The harbourmaster shut the ledger over the coins and looked up to the man with a cheerful smile.

“Welcome to Beacon Hills, Mr. Smith.”

He gave the man a courteous nod and strolled past him.

Peter looked across the bay at the large military ships that were docked in the harbour further down the shoreline.

He smirked and made his way along the outskirts of town, towards the magnificent ships.

The town was empty, but it was full of noise from the festivities that were underway.

Armed guards in dress uniforms lined the streets that lead to the large buildings, leaving very few people to guard the docks, or – more accurately – the ships.

But as Peter approached the docks, he found that his assumptions weren’t completely accurate; there were less guards, but there was still two men standing on sentry duty at the end of the pier: one was young with unkempt brown hair and the other was about the same age but had dark skin and short cropped black hair.

Peter sauntered towards the ship. His presence immediately alerted the two guards.

They straightened their posture and steadied their grip on their rifles.

“This dock is off-limit to civilians,” said the young boy with bronze hair.

“Sorry,” Peter said, raising his hands in defence as he stopped in his tracks. “I didn’t know.”

The music that came from within the town caught Peter’s attention for a moment.

“Is there some sort of party going on in town?” Peter asked.

“Yes,” replied the same guard, his friend standing silently behind him. “It’s a festival held in honour of Commodore Tate, in order to celebrate his promotion.”

Peter turned his eyes back to the young men, looking them up and down. “And you two weren’t invited?”

“Someone has to make sure this dock stays off-limits to civilians,” the young man repeated.

“Then that must mean this is one important ship,” Peter muttered, looking over at the large vessel.

“Captain Tate-”

“Commodore,” the dark-skinned man corrected.

“Right, _Commodore_ Tate is to make it his flagship,” he explained. “He’ll use it to hunt down the last dregs of piracy in these waters.”

“An admirable goal,” Peter muttered, “But this ship looks a little… redundant in comparison to the others in this bay.”

“This ship is the finest in these waters,” the talkative guard replied. “There’s no ship that can match it for speed.”

“Is that so?” Peter asked, turning his bright eyes back on the guards. “I may have heard of one that could challenge such a magnified repute: the _Lunar Eclipse_.

The guard scoffed at the name. “There’s no _real_ ship that can match this ship.”

“The _Lunar Eclipse_ is a real ship,” the darker-skinned guard piped up.

“No, Mason, it’s not,” his companion dismissed.

“Yes, it is,” Mason insisted. “I’ve seen it.”

“You’ve seen it?” the other young man asked in disbelief. “You’ve seen the _Lunar Eclipse_?”

“Yes, _Liam_ , I have.”

“You’ve seen a ship with black sails that’s crewed by the damned and captained by a man with a soul as dark as the namesake of his ship, a man so vile that hell spat him back out?” Liam reiterated.

“No,” Mason muttered. “But I have seen a ship with black sails.”

“But was that ship crewed by the damned and captained by a man with a soul as dark as the namesake of his ship, a man so vile that hell spat him back out? No? Then it wasn’t the _Lunar Eclipse_ , because the _Lunar Eclipse_ is just a legend. Like I said, there’s no _real_ ship that can match the - - hey!”

The young men span about, noticing that Peter had snuck past them during their argument.

The older man stood at the wheel, running his fingers over the whittled oak wood and admiring the view from his position. At the sound of the men’s cries, he looked back at them with an exaggerated look of naïve shock.

The guards hurried up the gangplank, pointing their rifles at the man.

“Get away from there,” Liam howled. “You don’t have permission to be aboard.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologised childishly. “It’s just such a pretty ship.”

Liam eyed him suspiciously. “What’s your name?”

“Smith,” Peter replied without missing a beat.

“And what’s your business in Beacon Hills, Mr. ‘Smith’?” He paused before quickly adding, “And no lies.”

“No lies?” Peter repeated, as if it were a challenge. “Well, okay then. I’m here to commandeer one of these ships, pick up a drunken, surly crew in one of the nearby ports, and sail across the seas to commit several accounts of piracy.”

“I said no lies,” growled Liam.

“I think he’s telling the truth,” muttered Mason.

“If he were telling the truth, he wouldn’t have told us,” counted Liam, turning his eyes way form Peter to continue the argument with his companion.

Peter coughed. He drew their attention back to him as he said, “Unless, of course, ‘he’ knew you wouldn’t believe the truth if he told it to you because you’d think it absurd that a man could be so blatantly honest about his wrongdoings when confessing them to men of the law who have the barrels of their guns pointed at him.”

The two guards looked at each other, deep in thought as they tried to take into consideration everything the man had just said.

Peter smirk mischievously, knowing he had baffled both of them.

 

Stiles swallowed hard.

He struggled to draw breath, the collar of his jacket feeling tighter and tighter the longer he wore it.

He caught sight of his reflection in the polished silverware that passed by in the hands of maids and butlers, and had noticed just how pale he was and how his translucent skin glistened with perspiration.

His thoughts were so tangled in trying to stay alive – trying to remember how to breathe – that he paid no attention to the ceremony, or the music, or the dancing, or any of the celebrations that had followed.

He turned his attention to an approaching figure, a young lady dressed in a beautiful sky blue dress and matching bonnet.

“Malia,” Stiles greeted.

The young lady curtseyed and lifted her gaze to meet his.

“May I have a moment of your time?” she asked.

Stiles nodded, too weak to speak, and held out his arm for her. She took it with sweet smile and let him guide her away from the party and towards the quiet of the parapet.

Once away from prying eyes, Stiles whispered, “You look lovely today, Malia.”

“And you look dashing,” she replied, bowing her head slightly to hide the soft colouring of a rosy pink blush that spread across her cheeks. She took a moment to breathe deeply before speaking outright, “I apologise if I seem to forward, but I must speak my mind. I am well aware that my father’s promotion secures him a position of power and me many suitors, however he seems determined to have me marry you. You are a fine young man and I do not wish to offend you in any way, but I beg of you, refuse my father: do not marry me.”

Stiles felt his heart hammering against his ribs. His head span as lights began to streak his vision. He braced himself against the rocky pillar that overlooked the steep cliff, grasping at his chest as if it would help.

“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.

“I understand if you do not wish to speak to me, I did not have any intention of hurting your feelings, but you see I simply do not…”

Stiles didn’t hear anything after that; his ears were ringing and his eyes fell shut.

The next thing he felt was air rush around him and a strange feeling of weightlessness.

 

Peter pushed Liam aside, stepping up to the bow. His bright eyes were focused on the figure that toppled off of the parapet.

The body hit the water with a heavy whack.

Peter flinched at the sound.

He turned back to the two guards who watched on in shock.

“Aren’t you going to help?” Peter asked.

“I can’t swim,” Liam confessed.

“Me nether,” Mason added. “Besides, there’s no way they missed the rocks.”

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “You are two of the finest men of the British navy.”

He began to strip off his jacket and unfasten his belt.

“Hold onto these. And don’t lose them,” he instructed as he offloaded his belongings to Liam.

Peter dove off the edge of the ship and swam towards the rocky cliff.

Through the clear sapphire water he could see the sinking body. He dove down deeper, grabbing the drifting body by the rippling fabric of his jacket. He pulled the boy closer, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him up towards the rippling surface.

He burst into the open, gasping for air. He laid on his back, resting the boy’s body atop of his as he paddled back towards the docks.

“Geez, kid,” Peter grunted. “How much do you weigh?”

The two guards raced back down the gangplank and helped Peter lift the boy onto the wooden pier.

Peter hoisted himself out of the water and crawled forward.

“Move,” he growled at the men.

They stepped away and let Peter shuffle over to the boy’s side.

He looked down at the boy, taking in the sight of his ghostly pale skin and plump lips that were tinted blue. His slender face was covered in bruises and cuts from the impact of the fall and from the waves that had pushed him against the rocks. His chestnut brown hair was wet and limp, clinging to his forehead.

Peter leant forward and held his ear over the boy’s mouth.

“He’s not breathing,” Peter muttered to himself. He sat back and pulled a knife from within his boot. He slid the blade beneath the tight collar of his jacket and tore through the thick fabric in one swift move.

He noticed how the guards stared at him with wide eyes as he slid his knife back into its sheath.

“Obviously neither of you have truly pleasured a woman,” Peter teased as he pressed his hands over the boy’s bare chest and pressed down.

Stiles coughed and sputtered. He spewed water across the wooden boards of the pier as he rolled onto his side and tried desperately to catch his breath.

Peter sat back, readying himself to stand when a glint of gold caught his eyes. He reached forward, taking the medallion that sat around the boy’s neck into his hand.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice low and quiet but suspicious.

Stiles snatched it out of his hand. His rosy pink lips quivered slightly as he made a start to answer but his words fell short when the ornate blade of a sword was lowered to Peter’s throat.

Peter directed his harsh glare at the owner of the sword.

“It’s very pretty,” Peter snarled. “Mind pointing it somewhere else?”

“On your feet,” Commodore Tate hissed.

Peter rolled his eyes and rose to his feet.

“Stiles!” his father cried, racing forward across the wooden pier.

Stiles pulled the medallion from his neck and shoved it into his pocket before turning to his father.

“Are you alright?” Governor Stilinski asked, panicked. He shrugged off his coat, ignoring his son’s dismissal as he wrapped it around the boy’s slender shoulders and cupped his face in his hands. He turned Stiles’ head from side to side, looking at the red and black blotches that marred his skin.

“Dad,” Stiles said firmly, making the man pause. “I said I’m fine. I just hit a couple of rocks, that’s all.”

The boy turned around, meeting Peter’s curious gaze.

“Commodore Tate, do you really intend to kill the man who saved my life?” Stiles asked.

The man glared at Peter who smirked and nodded the best he could with the tip of a blade pressed to his throat. Commodore Tate sighed and sheathed his sword. He took a step forward and extended his hand.

“I do believe thanks are in order.”

Peter returned the handshake.

Tate snatched up his wrist and turned it over. He pulled back the sleeve, revealing the raised white lines of a branding on his inner wrist, a ‘P’.

“Had a brush-up with the British forces before, did you, _pirate_?” Commodore Tate growled.  “Keep your rifles trained on him, men. Captain, fetch some shackles.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied before turning and walking aboard the large ship.

Tate pulled Peter’s sleeve higher up his arm, revealing the dark, spiralling black lines of a triskelion tattoo.

“Well, well, well,” Tate mused. “Peter Hale, isn’t it?”

“Captain Peter Hale,” the man corrected.

Commodore Tate made a show of turning about and looking at the nearby docks. “I don’t see your ship, _Captain_.”

“He said he was here to commandeer one,” Liam announced.

“I told you he was telling the truth,” Mason muttered under his breath.

The dark-skinned young man took a step forwards and offered the Commodore Peter’s belongings.

“These are his.”

With his free hand, Tate began to rifle through the belongings. He picked up the gun and began to describe them aloud, “A pistol with extra powder, but only one shot.”

Peter shrugged, not giving the man the pleasure of a response.

Commodore Tate picked up the small leather-bound case of the compass and tipped it open. He held the compass level and turned about, watching the needle spin about frantically.

“A compass that doesn’t point true.”

Peter snorted in an attempt to smother his laughter. He bowed his head to hide his smile.

Tate shot his a vicious glare before returning the compass to the belt. Mason held onto the scabbard for him as Tate grasped the hilt and drew the sword out.

“I half expected it to be made of wood,” Tate teased. “So, in conclusion, you have a pistol with one shot, a compass that doesn’t point north, and no ship to be seen. You are, by far, the worst pirate I have ever heard of.”

Peter levelled his eyes with the man and countered, “But you have heard of me.”

The captain returned with the shackles.

“Commodore, I must protest,” Stiles interrupted, stepping forward. “Pirate or not, this man saved my life.”

“One good deed does not redeem a man of a lifetime of crime,” the man replied.

“But it’s enough to get him caught and condemned,” Peter added snarkily.

Commodore Tate ignore him, turning his attention to the captain, who took a step closer and fastened the shackles around Peter’s wrists.

Now that the man was in chains, the guards lowered their weapons.

Stiles sighed, his shoulders dropping in defeat as he turned to leave. He let out a sharp gasp as heavy iron chains were coiled around his throat and he was pulled back against Peter’s body.

Tate drew his pistol on the man, but Peter kicked it out of his hand, satisfied by the sound of the weapon sinking into the bay.

The guards cocked their rifles and aimed them at Peter.

He pulled Stiles closer, listening to the boy yelp and watching the men flinch.

Tate raised his hand, signalling for the men to hold their fire.

“Now that I have your attention,” Peter began, his voice calm and level as if he were holding a normal conversation and not bargaining for his lift at gunpoint. “Commodore Tate, my belongings, if you would be so kind.”

Tate froze and Peter could see him tighten his jaw in frustration.

Peter rolled his eyes.

“I don’t have time for this,” he growled, taking step back towards the water and dragging Stiles with him.

The boy let out a panicked cry.

“Alright,” Tate shouted. He held out his hand and Mason gave him the desired objects. He held them out for Peter to take.

“That’s better,” Peter purred. “Now, Stiles – it is Stiles, isn’t it?”

“It’s Master Stilinski to you,” Stiles hissed through gritted teeth.

“Wow, that’s a mouthful,” Peter mused before continuing, “Master Stilinski, if you would.”

Stiles reached forward and took Peter’s belongings from Commodore Tate. He held them up for Peter to take.

“My hands are a little occupied,” Peter reminded him. He span the boy about in his hold and levelled his eyes with him. “Now, if you would be oh so very kind.”

Stiles glared at him, letting out a low growl as he sorted through Peter’s belongings. He lifted the heavy coat around the man’s shoulders, fastening it into place with one of the buttons near the overturned collar. Next, he slapped the trifold leather hat atop of his messy hair. Then he slid the pistol into the man’s sash.

“Careful you don’t fire it,” Peter teased.

“Don’t tempt me,” Stiles grunted.

The boy swallowed hard and reached around Peter, coiling the thick leather belt around the man’s slender waist and fastening it beneath the thick ornate buckle.

“Thanks,” Peter whispered.

“You’re despicable,” Stiles spat, snarling at the man.

“I saved your life, you’re saving mine. I’d say we’re even now; all debts are repaid.”

He span Stiles back around in his hold, dangerously tightening the chains around Stiles’ throat as he announced, “Gentlemen, may you always remember this as the day you _almost_ caught Captain Peter Hale.”

He quickly lifted his arms up and shoved Stiles towards his father. He grabbed a hold of the nearby ropes and kicked the wooden stake free. The counterweight of the load that was pending transferal onto the ship dropped to the deck, lifting Peter high into the air.  He let go, gracefully gliding through the air for a moment before grabbing a hold of a second rope.

“Fire,” Tate howled.

Peter mockingly saluted them as he swung further away from the dock and higher into the sails. Bullets zoomed around him, but none hit him.

Tate grabbed one of the rifles, tracking the man with the barrel of the gun.

He fired.

His shot severed the rope that Peter held onto.

Peter dropped to the deck of the ship, sprinting along its length before leaping into the water.

“Find him,” Tate bellowed.

The armed men scurried off down the pier.

Commodore Tate turned back to Stiles and his father.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

“I’m fine,” Stiles replied. “Go.”

Tate nodded curtly and turned to race after his men.

“And Dad,” Stiles rasped, his throat still sore.

“Yes, Stiles?”

“Don’t ever try and give me fashion advice again.”


	3. III

The thick leather boots of armed guards thundered down the main street of Beacon Hills. Two men stopped and began to search an alleyway. They pointed their guns at the inky black shadows, waiting for something to move.

“It’s clear,” one of the men announced.

The other nodded and they both headed back to the street and followed the rest of the search party.

Peter waited for their footsteps to grow quiet and fade into the distance before he dropped down from his concealed place between the eaves of the buildings. The chains around his wrists rattled and he grabbed a hold of them, quietening them before anyone heard. He shrugged his jacket off and laid it over his arms, hiding the chains.

He crept out onto the street and swiftly stepped into the nearby blacksmith.

He took a second to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness and looked about the space.

There were no windows, leaving the forge immersed in darkness. The large space was lit up by dwindling lanterns, the dull glow revealing the various works that were spread about the workshop: wagon wheels missing nails, iron gates missing latches and hinges, a cannon with a crack in the barrel, and a variety of blades – swords, knives, axes, and sickles – at various different stages of creation. Every tool was in its place and the materials such as iron ore, steel sheets and various other metals where stored away neatly towards the back of the room.

Peter flinched at the clinking of glass bottles and rustling fabric.

His eyes turned to the small pen in the corner where a man lay on the floor of the stable. The man snored and pulled his bottle closer to his chest.

Peter cautiously crept over to the edge of the donkey’s stable, looking down at the man in the worn-down, stained leather blacksmith’s apron. Peter leant over the wooden fence and prodded at the man.

The blacksmith snorted but didn’t wake.

Peter jabbed him harder.

The man smacked his lips and rolled over.

Peter shrugged and turned away, content that the man was not going to wake up. He made his way over to the workbench, looking up at the assorted tools that were strapped to nails on the wall. He took down a small-handled sledgehammer. He set it down by the nearby anvil and stepped over to the forge.

He held the sagging chains of his shackles over the embers.

He grimaced in pain as the metal began to heat and glow while the flames slapped his wrists. He pulled back and hurried over to the anvil. He coiled the chains around the horn and brought the hammer down hard and fast. He slammed it over and over again until one of the links shattered.

He pulled his hands apart and plunged them into a nearby bucket of water, sighing at the cool relief as hissing steam rose around him. He slowly pulled his hand back, rotating his wrist and flexing his arms. He ignored the burning pain of the blisters and chafing beneath the cuffs that ached with his movements.

His attention was drawn to the rattling latch of the door. He frantically looked about and dove beneath cover.

Through a gap between the stacked sandbags, he watched a young man enter the workshop. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up by the door. He stepped over to the donkey pen, patting the placid animal before looking down at the drunken man at the bottom of the stable.

“Right where I left you,” the young man muttered. He turned his attention to the donkey and whispered, “Has he been giving you any trouble?”

He patted the creature again before turning back to the rest of the forge. Something caught his attention.

He crossed the space, picking up the small sledgehammer to inspect it.

“I didn’t leave you here,” he mused.

He turned to look around.

Peter sprung from his hiding place, drew his sword and pointed it at the young man’s throat. He paused for a moment, squinting at the man before him as if something about the blacksmith was familiar.

“You’re the one they’re looking for, aren’t you?” the young man growled.

Peter ignored him and asked, “You look familiar. Have I threatened you before?”

“I’ve made a point of avoiding lowlifes, especially pirates.”

Peter shrugged. “Then it would be a shame to mar your impeccable record. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

Peter took a careful step back.

The young man snatched up one of the nearby swords he had forged. He slapped aside Peter’s blade. 

Peter levelled his glare with him. “You think it’s wise to cross a blade with a pirate?”

“You threatened Master Stilinski,” the young man said lowly, his eyes taking on a dangerous darkness.

Peter tried to put on a face of innocence as he replied, “Only a little. Well, actually, I didn’t. Threatening would imply that I, in some way, suggested I would take his life or put him in a position of danger which would result in him being maimed or killed. That, I did not do.”

The young man didn’t seem to listen, nor show any forgiveness, as he assumed an offensive stance. He held his arm outstretched with the blade pointed at the man while his other hand was extended behind him as a counter balance. He spread his legs and planted his feet, keeping his knees bent slightly and his weight tipped forward on his toes, ready to fight.

Peter raised his brow in curious amusement and mirrored the man’s stance.

They stood like that for a second.

Peter lunged forward.

Metal crashed against metal as they both thrust and parried with incredible speed and precision.

Peter paused and took a step back.

The young man returned to his stance.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Peter praised. “I’ll give you that. You have excellent form and quick reflexes, but how’s your footwork?”

The young man’s glare didn’t falter.

“If I step here--” Peter took a step to his left, watching as the young man mirrored the step, keeping the same distance as they circled around each other. “Very good. And if I step again… and again… we’ll just keep circling each other, around and around.”

He stopped, now standing where the young man had only moments ago.

Peter flashed his trademark devilish grin as he said, “Bye,” and turned to walk out the door.

The young man quickly latched on to what Peter was doing. He didn’t hesitate. He quickly adjusted his grip on his sword and hurled it at the door.

The broad blade wedged itself in the grains of the wooden latch and locked it against the panelling of the door, narrowly missing Peter.

Peter pushed at the latch, testing it. Realising it won’t move, he bit into his lip, exhaled deeply and turned on the young man. His glare was now vicious and cruel, but the boy did not waver beneath it.

“What’s your name?” Peter growled.

“Derek,” the young man replied coldly.

“Well, Derek, you are skilled, I’ll give you that,” Peter hissed. “But, once again, you stand between me and my way out. Only this time, you are without a weapon.”

Without breaking the man’s gaze, Derek picked up another sword.

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. His shoulders slumped as he over-dramatically expressed his distain.

“Fine,” he huffed, raising his weapon and lunging forward.

Derek countered his attacks and returned a few.

The metals of their sword rang.

Peter swung his arm forward, the broken chain of his manacle coiling around the young man’s blade. He twisted his wrist and pulled it out of Derek’s grasp. He tossed it across the workshop, leaving the young man unarmed.

Derek didn’t seemed fased, he leapt up onto one of the turntables and grabbed another blade.

“Who makes all of these?” Peter asked, his frustration showing.

“I do,” Derek replied calmly, countering the man’s thrusting blade with ease and elegance. “And I practice with them at least three hours a day.”

“You need to find yourself a girl,” Peter teased.

Derek’s jaw tightened and his lunged forward.

Peter countered, stepping aside and watching as the young man stumbled past him slightly.

“Or maybe the reason you practice three hours a day is because you have found a girl that piques your interest but the feelings are not mutual, so you’re trying to find some Neanderthalic mean of catching her attention,” Peter proposed.

Derek lunged forward again.

Peter blocked his attack, their blades crossed and faces inches apart.

He squinted in thought before adding, “Or is it ‘him’?”

Derek shoved him back, watching as the man quickly regained his balance and rose to his feet.

“And judging by your emotional reaction to the earlier events of today, I would assume the one who has caught your attention is none other than Master Stiles Stilinski. Am I right?”

Derek didn’t answer.

Peter smiled smugly.

“No,” Derek replied, trying to regain some sense of control over the situation. “I practice three hours a day so that when I meet a pirate, I can kill him.”

Derek kicked a sandbag forward.

Peter reacted by instinct, slicing the sack in half and turning his face away as the sand rained over him.

Derek took advantage of his dropped defences, leaping forwards and unleashing a flurry of attacks.

Peter blocked most of them and dodged other, the metal of their blades flashing and sparking as they collided.

Peter blocked one of the boy’s attacks, ducking under him and slamming his boot into the small of Derek’s back.

Derek collapsed to the ground with a painful grunt. He growled and lifted himself back up to his feet.

Peter stood proud, his composure as steady as ever as he said, “Training is nothing compared to combat. Rule number one, never attack in anger; emotion clouds your judgment and you become sloppy.”

The man’s cool blue eyes dropped to Derek’s arm.

The younger man glanced down, noticing the thick streams of blood that coursed from a wound. His hands trembled slightly as he reached up and wiped away the blood, confused as he whispered, “How did you-?”

“Sloppy,” Peter repeated.

Derek resumed his stance and leapt forward.

Peter dropped his sword and dove to the side. He collected a mallet from the wall and hurled it at the young man, knocking the sword from Derek’s hand. He grabbed a bundle of rope and tossed it at Derek’s feet. He rolled under the boy’s arms, coiling the rope around Derek’s ankles and tripping him up.

Derek collapsed to the ground with a painful yelp as Peter gracefully rose to his feet, collecting his sword as he did. He rounded on the boy and pointed the blade to his throat.

“You cheated,” Derek hissed.

Peter took a mocking bow as if he had finished some sort of performance. His smug grin returned as he reminded Derek, “I’m a pirate.”

Peter took a step back and turned to leave.

Derek quickly untangled his feet from the ropes and raced to the back door. He stopped in front of it, shielding the doorway with his broad form.

“Move,” Peter growled, unimpressed.

“No,” Derek said defiantly.

“Move aside,” Peter instructed firmly.

“I will not. I won’t let you escape.”

Peter turned, cursing under his breath. He span back and drew his pistol. He pointed the barrel at Derek’s head and cocked it.

Derek stood his ground, his cold composure not fracturing for a second.

Peter screamed in frustration, pulling back his gun and uncocking it.

“Consider yourself lucky that this shot isn’t meant for you,” Peter hissed.

Derek opened his mouth to say something when Peter’s body jolted slightly. Shards of glass and golden droplets of liquor rained over him as he collapsed to the ground.

Derek turned his eyes to the man who stood behind Peter’s collapsed body.

As if on cue, Commodore Tate and his men burst through the door. The wooden bar of the latch splintered and toppled to the ground.

Tate’s eyes focused on Peter’s unconscious body before turning to the blacksmith, ignoring Derek as he said, “Good work, sir. You have just aided in the capture of a dangerous fugitive.”

“Just doing my duty,” the man slurred.

Derek watched as the armed guards shouldered their weapons and dragged the pirate to his feet.

Peter groaned, his head swaying slightly as he focused his groggy eyes on Commodore Tate.

Tate smirked as he said, “I do believe we’ll remember this as the day that Captain Peter Hale almost escaped.”

Derek flinched, his eyes darting to the pirate. He watched on, feeling sick and numb, as Tate’s men dragged Peter out of the workshop.

His attention was drawn to the blacksmith’s quiet sobs as he looked down at the broken remains of his bottle. Derek looked down at him, meeting his bloodshot eyes as the man mumbled, “The bastard broke my bottle.”


	4. IV

The waxing moon sat high in the sky, overlooking the streets of Beacon Hills. In town, people went about lighting lanterns, the flickering flames mapping out the streets like the stars that were scattered across the onyx black pool of the night sky.

Stiles sat on the edge of his bed, dressed only in his pants as he staring out his bedroom window and into oblivion. He absentmindedly fingered the medallion, turning it about in his fingers and running his hand over the grooves and ridges.

The flame of the small oil lantern that sat by his bedside began to flicker and fade.

Stiles squinted at it, reaching forward to turn it up when the flame died.

Stiles gasped, his panicked eyes looking about the shadows.

“There’s no-one here,” he whispered to himself. “I’m alone and I’m safe; there’s no-one here.”

A cold darkness seeped into his bedroom.

He felt a shiver roll over his half-naked body as the metal seemed to ring. The Aztec gold had a soft chime that filled his ears, and he swore he heard a ghostly voice whisper, “We’re coming.”

 

Derek slaved over the forge, pumping the gallows to feed the flames. He reached forward and pulled the glowing, red iron rod from the embers and set it over his bench. He picked up his mallet and began to hammer it, moulding the malleable metal into a flat blade.

He repeated the action, over and over, until he was satisfied.

He dropped the blade into the nearby bucket of water, listening to the water hiss as steam rose and the glowing metal dulled to its natural shiny silver colour.

He retrieved the whittled wooden handle and slid the blade into place. He nailed it into place and picked it up, admiring his handy work. He adjusted his grip on the new axe, testing its balance and feeling the satisfying weight in his hand.

He frowned in confusion at the sound of strolling footsteps through the street; no-one ever visited this end of town, especially not this late at night.

He tightened his grip on the new axe and stepped over towards the door, pulling open one of the small shutters and peering out into the dully lit street.

Commodore Tate and Governor Stilinski talked quietly to each other, politely nodding and bidding a goodnight to the men who lit the lanterns, the drunkards who were huddled in the corners of the alleys and the workers who had stayed late to finish their duties.

“Has my son given you his answer yet?” Governor Stilinski asked.

Derek’s heart skipped a beat.

“No, he hasn’t” Commander Tate replied with a hint of remorse. “And it seems that my daughter has other plans.”

“They have had a rather taxing day,” Governor Stilinski defended. “And, maybe, this wasn’t the best idea for them. Your Malia is a sweet girl and she will make a wonderful wife someday, but you cannot force two people to love each other.”

Tate opened his mouth – to agree or protest, Derek didn’t know – but he was silenced by the thundering boom that split the air.

Stilinski frowned in confusion, listening as the distant sound was followed by a whistle. “What was that?”

Tate leapt forward, tackling Stilinski to the ground as a second thundering boom. The cannonball struck the nearby parapet. The rocky wall exploded, scattering debris around the place.

Two guards ran to their superiors and helped the men to their feet.

Tate began to shout orders, “Lieutenant, gather the men: guard the docks and return fire. Gather a crew, get a ship and find where those cannons are firing from.”

He turned to the Governor, helping steady the man as he turned to the other guard.

“Captain, escort him back to the barracks, barricade him in my office and guard him with your life. Stay low, stay quiet and stay safe.”

The guard nodded, turned to the Governor and guided him back towards the large building at the higher end of town.

Villagers streamed into the streets: men, women and children fleeing for cover.

The void of the night was filled with the sounds of crackling fire and roaring flames, crumbling buildings and toppled rocks, and a crescendo of panicked screams. The muddy streets erupted like volcanoes, ships were reduced to rubble, and people were silenced in the onslaught.

Another cannonball stuck, reducing a house down the street to ruins.

Derek stepped back into the workshop, gathering weapons. He stepped out into the street, catching Tate’s attention.

“You could use these,” Derek said, passing the Commander a sword, a pistol and an ample supply of bullets and gunpowder.

“Thank you,” Tate said bluntly, taking the weapons and hurrying towards the docks.

Derek tightened his grip on his newly made axe, his other hand steadied on the hilt of a long sword he had strapped around his waist.

Among the deafening noise, he heard the desperate cry of a young woman.

He ran down the muddy street and towards the cry. He pulled up before the burning building and quickly grabbed a hold of the screaming woman, pulling her back from the fire.

“Let me go!” she cried. “My little brother is in there.”

“Stand back,” Derek said calmly. “I’ll get him.”

He burst into the building, squinting through the heat and burning glow of the crackling flames that engulfed the house. Somewhere beneath the raging fire, he heard the quiet sobs of the trapped child. He made his way towards the sound, finding the small boy curled up in a corner and surrounded by fire.

Derek pushed forward and lifted the boy into his arms. He cradled the child against his chest, shielding his face from the fire as the boy weakly grabbed at Derek’s shirt.

Derek raced out of the house and leapt into the cool air of the night.

The wooden boards that had held up the house let out one last pathetic whine before collapsing inwards.

Derek set the boy down on his feet and watched as he raced into his big sister’s arms.

The woman cried with relief as she held the boy close. She looked up to Derek and sobbed, “Thank you.”

Derek nodded, resting his hand on her shoulder.

“Get to shelter,” Derek instructed.

The young woman nodded frantically, picked up her little brother and sprinted through the streets.

Sweat glistened on his skin, sparkling in the reflection of the fire.

He turned his bright eyes to the bay, watching as longboats traversed the thin veil of fog that lingered on the water’s surface.

Derek scowled.

“Pirates.”

 

Stiles was standing in his room, staring in horror as Beacon Hills was reduced to rubble and ash.

Beneath his window, he noticed movement among the darkness. He looked more carefully, making out the silhouettes of two individuals who sauntered towards the manor.

Stiles turned and sprinted out of his room. He raced down the hallway and towards the large staircase.

His body jerked slightly as he hit the railing, watching as the butler took a step closer to the door.

“No,” he cried out, but it was too late.

The door opened and there was the unmistakable boom of a fired gun.

The butler’s body crumbled and fell to the ground.

Stiles clapped his hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out.

One of the pirates, a stern looking young woman with flowing blonde hair, surveyed the foyer. Her dark eyes flicked up to the boy at the top of the staircase.

“There,” she said, pointing at Stiles.

The dark-skinned man behind her leapt forward.

Stiles turned and ran.

He sprinted into the nearest room, the upstairs sitting room, and slammed the doors shut behind himself, barricading it with the nearest object he could find.

“Master Stiles?”

The soft voice made the boy jump.

He span around, his wide eyes focusing on the young maid who cowered behind the desk.

“Thank God, you’re alright,” Stiles sighed.

“Have they come for you?” she asked, her voice weak.

“Why would they come for me?”

“You’re the Governor’s son,” she replied.

There was a loud thud at the door.

Stiles flinched.

He turned back to the young maid and whispered, “Listen, there’s two of them. They haven’t seen you yet. Hide, and then as soon as you get the chance, run for the fort. There will be men in the town so stay to the shore line, and be careful.”

The young girl nodded and sank behind the desk again.

Stiles picked up the nearby lantern, the flame was extinguished like the one in his bedroom and waited by the door.

The large wooden panels caved.

The two stepped forward and Stiles hurled the lantern at them, blinding them with oil and glass. He took the opportunity, ducked beneath their flailing arms and scurried down the hallway and back into his bedroom.

He crossed the room to the small fireplace and collected the bedpan. He readied himself by the door, just in time for the dark-skinned pirate to step into the room.

He countered the large man’s sword with the pan, making him chuckle at the boy’s attempt to defend himself.

Stiles tightened his jaw and pulled the lever, releasing the hot embers from within the pan.

The glowing coals fell on the man’s face, burning the oil.

The pirate took a step back and swatted at his face.

Stiles sprinted out the door again and raced down the hallway, swerving to miss the blonde.

He scurried down the staircase and towards the door. The thundering footsteps echoed down the hall. He paused: he wouldn’t get far in the dark of night, especially when he was wearing no shoes or clothes.

He turned and ran towards the dining room, slamming the double doors shut behind himself.

He listened as the two invaders made their way downstairs again before turning and racing into the kitchen.

He pulled open one of the cupboards and crawled into the tight space. He silently closed the door behind himself and tried to steady his breathing.

There was a thundering boom as the dining room doors caved in and the pirates made their way towards the kitchen.

“I know you’re here, poppet,” the blonde pirate called. Her voice was sweet and soft, but Stiles could hear a cynical beneath it. “Come out and I promise we won’t hurt you.”

Stiles swallowed hard and held his breath.

“You have something of ours,” she continued. “We only want it back.”

Stiles instinctively reached for the medallion. He picked it up, looking down at it.

Beyond the door, he heard the blonde say, “The gold calls to us.”

He turned it back and forth, watching how it glistened and rang in the reflection of the light. His heart skipped a beat as the stream of light disappeared.

He slowly turned towards the small crack in the cupboard door, meeting the gaze of the blonde pirate.

He saw her smile as she whispered, “Hello, poppet.”

She tore open the cupboard door.

“Parlay,” Stiles yelped.

“What?”

“Parlay,” Stiles repeated, his voice shaking slightly. “I invoke the right to parlay. According to the code of the Brethren, set down by the pirates Morgan and Bartholomew, you must take me to your Captain, and – until the parley is complete – no harm is to come to either party.”

“I know the code,” the blonde said condescendingly. “And, apparently, you do too.”

“To hell with the code,” the dark-skinned pirate growled, his face burnt and weeping. He moved to draw his sword when the blonde stopped him.

She turned to her partner.

“He wants to be taken to the Captain and he’ll go without a fuss,” she reiterated, her voice hinting that she had her own intentions. “We must honour the code.”

The other pirate released his hold on the hilt of his sword, his face set in a scowl as he stepped away from the boy.

The blonde turned back to him, flashing a devilish smile as she nodded towards the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

 

Derek raced through the ruins and chaos of Beacon Hills, weaving his way around gathering crowds and leaping over fallen debris as he sprinted towards the Governor’s manor.

His eyes were focused on the grand building.

He froze, skidding to a halt as he stared in fear.

Among the dully lit space, he spotted three figures emerge from the manor. He knew one of them and there was no mistaking who it was: Stiles.

He hurried forward, calling out for the boy, “Stiles!”

A pirate leapt from the shadows, his sword drawn and slashing at Derek.

Derek blocked his attacks, hooking the blade of his axe around the long sword and locking it into place.

He shoved the man back and hurled his axe, the blade wedging itself in the man’s chest.

The pirate pulled the axe from his chest as if it didn’t affect him. There was no blood, no torn flesh or broken bones.

The pirate snarled and hurled the axe back at Derek.

Derek dodged to the side. The axe struck the nearby house with a heavy thud. He drew his sword from his sheath, ready to fight, when a second pirate rounded the corner behind him and shattered a wooden plank over the back of his head.

Derek stumbled slightly and collapsed to the ground.

He couldn’t move.

His vision blurred as he blinked heavily, trying to focus on the figures that scurried from the manor to the docks.

His lips trembled with a weak breath as he tried one last time to call out, but it came out as nothing more than a whisper, “Stiles.”


	5. V

Among the thundering cannon fire, the longboat rocked over the waves.

Stiles sat as still as he could, trying to steady his breathing as they pulled up alongside a large ship. The withered wood was covered in seaweed and barnacles that dripped water as the waves lapped at the hull. The dark, black sails melted into the inky abyss of the night sky, holes in the canvas allowing a glimpse at the twinkling stars above.

There was no mistaking it.

It was the _Lunar Eclipse_.

The longboat pulled up alongside two ropes. The two pirates quickly grabbed them and tied them onto the boat.

Stiles gasped and grabbed a hold of the wooden plank he called his seat as the longboat was hoisted out of the water and up to the deck level.

The dark-skinned pirate grabbed Stiles’ arm and hurled him onto the deck.

Stiles fell to his knees with a painful thud. He took a second to steady himself on the damp wood before rising to his feet. He held his composure, glaring at anyone who dared come near him.

The moonlight was barred by the fog, the space was lit up by small oil lanterns instead.

Someone stepped down from the higher deck, making their way down the stairs gracefully and walking over to Stiles’ side.

She was a beautiful young lady with a golden wave of curls that cascaded down her back, bouncing off her translucent skin as she sauntered forward.

“I wasn’t aware we were taking captives,” she said, her voice calm and level as her cold blue eyes rolled over Stiles’ half-naked body. “Erica, care to explain?”

“He invoked the right to parlay,” the blonde who had brought him there said. “He wants to speak to the Captain.”

The figure behind the wheel of the ship lifted his head inquisitively, but from this distance, Stiles couldn’t see his face. The silhouetted figure took a step towards the stairs, but did not descend to their level.

Stiles glanced from Erica to the first mate and said, “I thought it was bad luck to have a woman on board.”

Without missing a beat, the older woman backhanded Stiles, knocking him to the deck.

Stiles gasped and steadied himself. The cool air stung at his cheek, offering him no relief. He breathed deeply and continued, “Then again, you are enthusiastic when man-handling others.”

The first mate grabbed him by his hair and pulled him to his feet.

Stiles let out a yelp as he winced in pain, not daring to fight back or enrage her further.

“Kate,” a booming voice called across the darkness.

The Captain appeared by their side suddenly, moving unnoticed through the shadows.

“You shall not lay a hand on those under the protection of parlay,” he said coldly.

“Yes, sir,” Kate replied, releasing her hold on the boy.

The Captain turned to Stiles and flashed a quick smile. “My apologies. As you were saying, before you were so rudely interrupted?”

“I have come to negotiate a cease fire to end the hostilities against Beacon Hills,” Stiles said firmly with more confidence than he had.

“There were a lot of long words in there that aren’t in the vocabulary of a pirate, lad. So, what is it you want?” Captain Argent asked.

“I want you to leave and never come back,” Stiles reiterated.

Captain Argent smirked and the surrounding pirates burst out in laughter.

The man took a step forward and said, “I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request.”

Stiles frowned in confusion.

The Captain smirked. “It means no.”

“Fine,” Stiles huffed.

He pulled the medallion from around his neck and stormed over to the railing that skirted the edge of the ship. He extended his arm and held the golden medallion over the rocking dark water.

“I’ll drop it,” Stiles threatened.

Chris held his composure. “What makes you think a little bit of gold would have any sway over me?”

“Because it’s what you’ve been looking for. I recognise this ship,” the boy explained. “I saw it eight years ago on the crossing from England.”

Argent raised his brow. “Did you now?”

Stiles glared at him. He knew this was getting nowhere and he would have to take drastic measures.

“Fine, if it really means nothing to you then I guess neither of us has any use for it.”

He loosened his grip on the chain and let it slide in his hand.

“No!” Chris cried, hurrying forward.

Stiles clenched his hand again, stopping the chain from sliding free. He stared the man down, raising his brow and smiling smugly and grinning with triumph.

Captain Argent straightened his back. “You got a name, lad?”

“Stiles S-” He stopped himself and swallowed hard before saying, “Hale. I’m a bell boy in the Governor’s mansion.”

The pirates flinched at the name, turning and gossiping among each other.

“How does a bell boy come to own a trinket such as that? A family heirloom, perhaps?” The Captain asked.

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

Captain Argent smiled and whispered, “No, no, nothing like that.” He paused for a moment to think. “Alright, we have an agreement. If you hand that over, we will stop such ‘hostilities’, leave Beacon Hills and never return.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Stiles asked suspiciously.

“You invoked parlay.”

Stiles swallowed hard and held out the medallion. He dropped it into the Captain’s calloused hand.

“Our bargain?” Stiles prompted, making sure the man kept up his end of the promise.

“Cease fire!” the Captain shouted. “Stow the guns, signal the men to return, set the flags, haul anchor, and clear the port.”

Stiles held his breath.

The thundering cannons were silenced.

He let out a sigh of relief, watching as the men moved about the ship and readied to leave.

Chris turned and made his way back towards the stairs.

“Wait,” Stiles cried, scurrying after Captain Argent. “You must drop me ashore. According to the rules of the Brethren-”

Chris turned on him. His vicious glare silenced the boy. “Firstly, your return to shore was not part of our negotiations nor our agreed upon terms, so I ‘must’ do nothing. Secondly, you must be a pirate for the pirates’ code to apply to you, and you’re not so it doesn’t. And thirdly, the code is more what you’d call guidelines than actual rules, there’s no-one to enforce them so we don’t have to follow them.”

Captain Argent took a step closer to the boy, grinning widely. He snatched up the boy’s arm and dragged him across the deck towards the Captain’s cabin. He tossed the boy into the small office, his devilish smirk widening as he grabbed a hold of the large stained glass doors and readied himself to slam them shut.

“Welcome aboard the _Lunar Eclipse_ , Mister Hale.”


	6. VI

Derek groaned as he slowly blinked his eyes open to the anaemic light of the early morning sun.

His head was throbbing and it took a while for his vision to clear.

He could hear the rugged wisps of his breath. Beyond the dull silence that surrounded him, he could hear the distant cries of people who had lost their loved ones and their homes.

He slowly raised himself up onto his trembling hands and knees. He staggered to his feel looking about at the smouldering piles of ashes that were once homes and stores. The harbour was dotted with the debris of sunken ships and broken docks.

Then his memory struck him.

“Stiles,” he gasped.

He picked up his feet and sprinted towards the Governor’s manor.

The burst through the door and cried out for the boy, “Master Stilinski! Stiles!”

He was met with an awful silence.

His eyes looked about at the ruins of the house: overturned furniture and blood pools on the marble tiles.

He took a deep breath and turned, racing towards the barracks.

He ran past the armed guards and stormed the offices, still armed with his sword and his axe. He burst into the Commodore’s office, panting as he said, “They’ve taken him. They’ve taken Stiles.”

Commodore Tate and Governor Stilinski turned to look at the intruder. The armed guards readied themselves to defend their superiors, but Tate dismissed him, looking at Derek with an expression of disgust.

“We are aware of that,” Tate announced.

“We have to get him back,” Derek pushed. “We have to hunt down the pirates who attacked us.”

“Where do you propose we start?” Stilinski snapped, his fear for his son had left him short-tempered. “If you have any information that concerns my son, then speak up! If not, then leave, Mr Hale!”

“That pirate, Peter Hale,” the young guard, Liam, ventured. “He said something about the _Lunar Eclipse_.”

“He mentioned it,” Mason corrected but confirmed.

“Then we can ask him where it is or where it makes port,” Derek suggested, grasping at strings. “Maybe he can lead us to it.”

“That pirate tried to kill my son,” Governor Stilinski countered. “We can’t trust a word he says.”

“We could strike a bargain,” Derek offered. “Give him back to the pirates.”

“It won’t work,” Tate announced. “The pirates who attacked last night left Hale locked up in his cell. Ergo, he is not a part of their crew, nor their ally. And, therefore, he is of no value.”

Derek swallowed hard. “We’ve got to do something.”

Tate turned his bright eyes back to the large map that was sprawled across of the desk in front of him. “We well determine their most likely course and launch a mission to search for them as they sail with the tide.”

Derek slammed the axe down on the desk, the blade slicing through the map.

“That’s not good enough!” he howled. “This is Stiles’ life we’re talking about.”

Tate raised a hand and stilled his men. He straightened his posture and rounded the table to Derek’s side.

“Mr Hale, this is not the time for rash actions,” he said lowly. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that you are the only man here that cares for Stiles. We are doing all we can. Now, go home.”

He reached past the young man and opened the door.

Derek levelled his glare with the man, breathing deeply as he turned and walked away.

He trudged away from the office, his face set in a scowl as he muttered to himself, “Then I must take matters into my own hands.”

 

Peter shoved his body against the door, hoping to knock the latch about enough that it would either break away from the door or break the inside of the lock. Since the cell doors were made of thick cast iron plating, his chances were slim to none, but he was so desperate that he would try anything.

From up the small flight of stairs he heard the quiet rattle of the door.

He leapt backwards and laid down in the straw that covered the cell’s floor. He lifted his hands behind his head and pretended like he didn’t have a care in the world.

A familiar figure made his way over to Peter’s cell.

“Are you familiar with the ship known as the _Lunar Eclipse_?” Derek asked.

Peter shrugged.

“Where does it make port?” Derek pushed.

“Surely you’ve heard the stories. The _Lunar Eclipse_ is a nightmare ship that sails from the dreaded Isla de Mureta – the ‘Island of the Dead’.”

Derek didn’t seem to have any patience for the man, growling through gritted teeth, “Where is it?”

“It is an island that can’t be found on any map or by anyone except those who know where it is,” Peter explained.

“The ship is real enough, so the place where it weighs anchor must also be real. Where is it?”

“Why are you asking me?” Peter asked, seemingly offended.

“Because you’re a pirate,” Derek growled.

“That’s quite the stereotype you’ve fitted me into. I bet you also think I have a peg leg.” Peter rolled up his pant legs. “No. An eye patch?” He patted around his face. “No. How about a parrot?” Peter glared at the young man as he bluntly said, “No.”

“You know enough about the ship and the island to know where it is, so, I’ll ask one last time: _where is the island_?”

“Why are you so intent on knowing?” Peter countered. “Are you interested in being a pirate all of a sudden?”

“No,” Derek growled. “Never.”

Peter raised his brow quizzically, prompting Derek to explain himself.

Derek sighed heavily. “They took Master Stilinski.”

“So, I was right? You found someone that you fancy, and it is a guy,” Peter said triumphantly. He sat upright and smirked. “Well, if you’re intending to brave it all and hasten to his rescue in hopes of winning over the young gentleman’s heart, you’ll have to do it alone. I highly doubt that the British navy will believe you and I don’t see any benefit in offering you my help.”

Derek let out a savage cry and slammed his fist against the iron bars.

Peter flinched, shocked by the man’s sudden outburst.

Derek bowed his head, resting his forehead against the cold metal of the bars. He took a few deep breaths and fought back tears as he tried to calm down. He took a moment before opening his bright eyes again and focusing on the bars of the cell. He leant back and looked the cell doors up and down.

“I can get you out of here,” Derek bargained.

“How?” Peter asked, “The mutt carrying the key scurried off during last night’s… excitement.”

“I helped build these cells,” Derek explained. “These are hook-and-ring hinges. With the proper application of strength, the door will lift free. Just need some leverage…”

Peter frowned as he watched the young man move back and forth. The kid looked so familiar, but Peter couldn’t quite place it. He didn’t know the name, but there was something about the young man, something about his long black hair and glittering aventurine eyes, that seemed so familiar.

Derek picked up one of the small benches and flipped it over. He fitted the legs of the bench between the holes of the cell door.

“Your name, what is it?” Peter asked, rising to his feet and dusting himself off.

“Derek.”

“Derek…?” Peter prompted.

The young man swallowed hard and replied, “Derek Hale.”

“It seems to be a common name,” Peter muttered. He took a step closer to the door. “Tell you what, Mr Hale: I’ve changed my mind. You spring me from this hell-hole and, risking pain and death, I will get you to the _Lunar Eclipse_.”

 He fitted his hand through the bars.

“Do we have a deal?”

 Derek eyed him suspiciously before returning the handshake. “Deal.”

“Great,” Peter cheered. “Now get me out.”

Derek checked that everything was fitted into place and took a step back. He grabbed the far end of the bench and pushed down. There was a loud boom and a thundering echo as the door rose off its hinges and fell to the ground.

Peter looked genuinely impressed.

Derek stepped back and watched as Peter staggered out of the cell.

“Someone would have heard that,” Derek said, grabbing Peter’s belongings and tossing them to the man. “We need to go. Now.”

Peter nodded, following Derek upstairs. He wound the belt around his slender hips and pulled his jacket on before setting his leather tri-fold hat atop of his thinning hair.

“This guy, Stiles-”

“Master Stilinski,” Derek corrected.

“Whatever. What does he mean to you?”

Derek didn’t reply.

“Let’s try this again,” Peter started. “How far are you willing to go to save him?”

“I will die for him,” Derek replied without hesitation.

Peter smirked devilishly. “Good.”

 

Peter toddled along the shoreline with Derek in tow. He stopped by a small row boat, gently nudging it with his foot as if to test its sturdiness before turning back to Derek.

“Are you serious? That thing?” Derek asked.

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to sail it,” Peter said as if it were meant to reassure the young man.

Derek swallowed hard.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, noticing Derek’s discomfort.

“I haven’t set foot off dry land since I was twelve years old,” Derek explained.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll keep you safe.”

“So we’re not-sailing this boat to the Isla de Mureta?”

“No, we’ll be using this boat to get to another other vessel and commandeer a proper ship to sale to the Isle de Mureta,” Peter explained.

Derek looked across the bay. His eyes were drawn to the large military ships further down the harbour. He looked back at Peter’s mischievous grin.

“No,” Derek hissed.

“Yes,” Peter replied.

“We’re going to steal a ship?”

“Commandeer,” Peter corrected. “We’re going to commandeer a ship. It’s a nautical term.”

“It’s still against the law,” Derek argued.

“So is breaking a man out of jail,” Peter countered. He turned to look at the young man. “Admit it, Derek: you may say you’ll never be a pirate, but you’re off to a great start down the path of sin and crime.” Peter swiftly turned and hoisted the row boat up. “My advice: just smile and enjoy it.”

Derek took a step forward and followed suit.

They trudged forward, making their descent beneath the tide. They moved slowly but surely across the seabed and towards the ships in the harbour. They breathed steadily from the air that was trapped in the bubble beneath the overturned boat.

“This is either brilliant or crazy,” Derek muttered, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space.

“It’s remarkable how often those two traits coincide.”

 

Aboard the large naval ship, the guards were gathered on the main deck, playing cards and talking among themselves.

Peter and Derek sprung forth, pistols drawn and directed at the men.

“Everybody stay calm,” Peter howled. “We’re taking over the ship!”

They sailors burst out in laughter, grinning widely as they shook their heads.

Peter stood his ground, unmoving and grinning with them. Except when he flashed his teeth they were animalistic, cynical and sarcastic.

After a moment the Lieutenant seemed to notice that Peter and Derek still held their guns level.

“Are you being serious?” the Lieutenant asked.

Peter turned his pistol on the man. His cold blue eyes looked through the man. “Dead serious.”

“You do understand that this ship cannot be crewed by only two men?” the Lieutenant pointed out. “You’ll never make it out of the bay.”

“We’ll see about that,” Peter replied coldly.

The sailors seemed shocked by the man’s confidence. But the moment quickly passed. They shuffled forwards and readied themselves to draw their swords. The Lieutenant raised his hand, halting the men.

“I will not see any of my men hurt or wounded in this foolish enterprise,” he announced.

“Fine by me,” Peter agreed. “We brought you a nice little boat so you can all get back to shore, safe and sound.”

The Lieutenant nodded curtly. “Agreed. We will leave you be with the momentary advantage if you give us time to disembark.”

“You have all the time you need,” Peter announced. He kept his pistol trained on the men as he stepped aside and let them make their way into the longboat. As they were boarding and lowering themselves into the water, Peter turned to Derek and began to give him instructions, “Haul up the anchor. I’ll help you raise the sails once the men are free of our wake.”

Derek nodded and made his way to the stern of the ship. He began to pull at the whittled wooden knobs of the large crank, pulling up the cast iron anchor.

Peter stared at him for a moment, amazed at the young man’s strength to do such a strenuous task on his own.

Derek finished doing so and returned to the deck.

The Lieutenant climbed aboard the longboat with his men and cast one last glance over his shoulder at Derek. He looked at the young man with concern as he asked, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“No,” Derek answered honestly.

The two lowered the men into the water and waited for them to row free of the ship before returning to their duties. They climbed up the woven ropes on the side of the ship and unfastened the large canvas sails.

The breeze caught in the fabric, billowing it out and spurring the ship forward.

Peter dropped down to the deck and looked at Derek triumphantly.

“Look at that. We’re underway.”

 

Tate bent over his desk and glared at the large map, trying to chart the predicted course of the phantom ship based on the currents, tides and wind.

Governor Stilinski stood in large archway of the window, staring out across the bay. He tried to stay calm but the fact that no-one was doing anything was testing his patience; the longer the men stayed in port, the further away the pirates – and Stiles – got.

His eyes were drawn to the longboat that rowed its way back to shore.

“Commodore,” Stilinski called over his shoulder. His eyes were drawn to where the row boat full of men pointed towards the harbour. “It appears someone is stealing your ship.”

Tate was by his side in seconds, his eyes focused on the large ship that drifted along the tide and made its way out of the bay.  He pulled his large brass telescope from his belt and opened it, looking at the figure that moved about the ship’s deck: Derek.

“Rash, Hale,” Commodore Tate muttered to himself. “Too rash.”

He turned the telescope to the man behind the wheel, an unmistakable figure. Peter Hale.

He lowered the telescope and stormed out of his office, bellowing, “Men, ready the guns: jackets off the cannons and aim at that ship!”

“We’re going to fire upon our own ship?” asked one of the soldiers.

“I’d rather see her at the bottom of the sea than in the hands of a pirate,” Tate growled.

The Captain stepped forward.

“Belay that,” he instructed. “They’re out of range. I’m sorry, sir. We’re too late.”


	7. VII

Stiles paced back and forth across the cabin, gnawing at the tip of his thumb.

The large cabin doors rattled as they opened. Erica, the younger blonde of the crew, entered, carrying a large bundle of fabric.

“You’ll be dining with the Captain,” she announced. “And he requests you wear this.”

“You can tell your captain that I am ‘disinclined to acquiesce to his request’,” Stiles quoted.

A delighted grin spread across her face as she announced, “He said you would say that, and if that be the case, then you’ll be dining with the crew.”

Her eyes rolled over Stiles’ slender form as she ravenously licked her lips. The dark irises lingered on his abs, honing in on the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistline of his pants.

Stiles suddenly became aware of just how exposed he was. He was still only dressed in a pair of pants. He squirmed slightly, drawing Erica’s attention back to his face.

A cold shiver ran down his spine as Erica added, “And you’ll be naked.”

Stiles snatched the clothes out of her hands.

Erica pouted and turned to walk out of the cabin.

Stiles looked down at the clothes in his hands, a thick black silky suit. He sighed heavily and began to pull the clothes on.

No sooner had he dressed was there another knock at the door.

“Yes?” he beckoned regretfully.

Captain Argent stepped into the room. He was followed by a few pirates who carried in trays of food and silverware. They went about their work, unnoticed, as they set up the large table for dinner.

“Bell boy or not, it looks good on you,” Chris commented.

“Dare I ask the state of its previous owner?” Stiles muttered.

Argent ignored him. “Please, let’s eat.”

Stiles turned to see that the large dining table that sat in the middle of the room was now adorned with gleaming ceramic plates that had silver patterns along the edges. The centre of the table held the display of a large banquet; stews, roasts, pasta, various finger-foods, fresh fruits and vegetables, juices, crystal clear water in large decanters, bottles of wine and sweet delicacies.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and made his way over to his seat. He sat down and waited patiently for Chris to join him.

“You don’t have to stand on ceremony, there’s no-one here that you need to impress,” Chris announced, shooing his crewmates out of the room. He returned to his seat and sat down, eyeing Stiles. “You must be hungry.”

He was, starving in fact. He hadn’t eaten in an entire day. He was about to deny it when his stomach let out a loud growl that gave him away. He bit into his lip and reached forward. He picked up a chicken leg and bit into the roasted flesh, juice dripping down his chin. He collected roasted vegetables and forkfuls of pasta and shovelled them into his mouth.

Argent picked up a silver goblet and poured some wine into it. The blood-red liquid sloshed about, beads clinging to the inside of the glass before dripping down into the pool.

“Try the wine,” Chris insisted, offering Stiles the glass.

The boy took it and gulped back mouthfuls of the wine greedily. He set down the glass and picked up his food again. He grabbed a chunk of bread and tore it apart, devouring the soft white flesh.

“And an apple,” Chris offered, picking up a ripe green apple from the bowl of fresh fruit and holding it out for the boy. “Try one of those next.”

Stiles paused. He swallowed hard, gulping down his mouthful of food as he looked at the man with a mix of terror and suspicion. He noticed that the man’s plate is empty and that he has not been eating.

Stiles’ voice was raspy as he said, “It’s poisoned.”

Chris threw his head back and burst out into laughter.

Stiles quickly gabbed his knife as subtly as he could and slid it up his sleeve.

Captain Argent’s hearty laughter dwindled. He took a moment to regain his composure before announcing, “There would be no sense in killing you, Mister Hale.”

“Then why aren’t you eating?” Stiles asked.

“I would if I could,” Chris answered.

Stiles frowned at him, obviously confused.

Captain Argent buried his hand in his pocket and pulled out the gold medallion that Stiles had previously had in his possession. He let the chain hang from his fingers, the ancient gold gleaming as the glow of the candlelight glared off of the precious metal.

“Do you know that this is?” the man asked, his cold blue eyes were focused of the spinning medallion that hung from the thin chain.

“It’s a pirate medallion,” Stiles replied.

“It’s a piece of treasure from the Isla de Muerta,” Chris corrected.

Stiles shrugged slightly, not sure what that meant.

“So you don’t know as much as you pretend to,” Chris chided. “Back when Hermán Cortés cut his way through nations on a bloody path to create a new world, a high priest gave him all the gold they had, but on one condition: that he spare the lives of the people in that village. Of course, Cortés being the man he was, he broke the promise and slaughtered everyone without the slightest hint of mercy.”

Argent lowered the medallion into his hand and turned it between his calloused fingers.

“So, with his dying breath, the priest called upon the power within the blood of his people and put a curse upon the gold,” Captain Argent continued. “If anyone came upon the treasure and was consumed by greed enough to take so much as a single piece, they were to feel the consequences of their actions and be overcome by their greed.”

Chris rose from his seat and crossed the room to a small chest that sat on the large oak desk. He unlocked it and began to rifle through its contents: star charts, maps with courses drawn over them and others without, Chinese tokens that were often used to ward off curses and ailments, pieces of bark that were inscribed with Mayan symbols, old compasses and various other trinkets.

The Captain continued his speech, “Within a day of leaving the port and charting their course for Spain, something went wrong and the ship carrying the gold was run aground a few days later. Every man on board died, save one: Cortés. He lived long enough to drag the gold ashore and set it inside a cave.” He paused, returning his attention to the gold medallion in his hand. “Over time, the dark magic of the curse seeped into the place, making is a cursed island: an island of death… the Isla de Muerta.”

“That’s very interesting,” Stiles announced, breaking the tense silence. “But I’m a little too old to believe in ghost stories anymore, Captain.”

Chris turned on the boy, livid with rage. He stormed over to the table and cast the food aside. The dishes and their contents crashed to the floor, others hurled across the cabin as Argent bellowed, “You foolish boy! This is no make-believe story. My crew and I found that blasted gold years ago and we did more than take one piece. We were rich and foolish. We traded it all away in exchange for food and drink or a night’s worth of pleasant company. But we soon found out that the drink would not quench our thirst, the food would turn to ash in our mouths, and no amount of pleasant company could dull the pain or ease the torment.”

Stiles sat still in his chair. He didn’t flinch or break the man’s eye-contact. He swallowed hard and tried to hide his shock and fear; he would not let the man have the upper hand.

Chris straightened his back and drew in a deep breath, regaining his cold composure.

“We are cursed men, Mister Hale,” Chris growled. “We are condemned to be forever consumed by our own greed. The gold calls to us, and we are driven to find more and add it to the treasure… We’ve tried enchantments, religions, and everything else under the sun, but nothing works. There is only one thing that we know of that could break the curse: return the gold in full and repay the blood.”

Argent’s eyes flicked down to the medallion in his hand.

“With this, we have recovered all the pieces. As for the blood…” Chris’s voice trailed off for as second before his bright eyes met Stiles’. “Well, that’s what we need you for.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

The Captain made his way around the table and stood by Stiles’ side, towering over the boy.

“Like I said earlier, there’s no sense in killing you,” Chris said lowly. “Yet.”

From among the mess of food and dishes, Argent hooked the toe of his boot under the ripe green apple and kicked it up. He caught the apple and once again offered it to Stiles.

“Apple?”

Stiles reached for it, but didn’t take it. He leapt from his seat and ran around Argent.

The pirate grabbed the boy by the back of his jacket and pulled him back.

Stiles wrestled in his hold, thrashing about. He kicked at the man’s shins and pummelled him with his fists, but Chris’s grip on his wrists were painfully tight.

Stiles pulled back, brandishing the knife that he had hid in his sleeve. He leapt forward and drove it through the man’s chest.

Chris froze for a moment, his mouth agape and his eyes wide with shock as he looked down at the knife that penetrated his chest.

Stiles took a step back, drawing the knife out.

Glistening blood stained the blade, but the man’s chest was unharmed, no pierced skin or blood on his flesh or his clothes.

Stiles stared at him, eyes wide with terror as Chris calmly said, “I’m curious. After killing me, what were you planning to do next?”

Stiles took a step back, stumbling over his own feet as he sprinted out the door.

He skidded out onto the main deck and pulled up to a stop.

A quiet whimper escaped his lips as the crew turned to look at him. His jaw trembled and his lungs burnt for air. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. So, instead, he simply stared at the horrific image that laid before him.

The silvery light of the moon illuminated the nightmarish figures of the skeletons that worked the decks. Their flesh had melted from their bones, exposing the brittle skeletons that looked to be centuries old. The grooves of the bones were darkened by gathered soot and dirt and the sides of their faces weather-beaten by the salty winds of the sea. Their clothes were nothing more than thin rags that clung to their bones.

The deck wreaked of sea salt and decomposing bodies.

The boy’s stomach churned and knotted as bile rose into his throat. He swallowed hard and wheeled around, racing back towards the Captain’s cabin.

Argent stood in the shadows of the doorway. He grabbed Stiles’ shoulder and roughly span him around.

Stiles squealed and shut his eyes.

Chris grabbed the boy’s chin, turning Stiles’ face as the older man hissed, “Look.”

Stiles shook his head, gritting his teeth and whimpering weakly.

“Look!” Chris shouted.

Stiles slowly opened his eyes.

“The moonlight reveals us for what we really are,” Chris explained. “We are not among the living and so we cannot die.”

He span Stiles around to face him and began to walk the boy backwards until they were bathed in moonlight.

The pale flesh that covered Captain Argent’s face began to rot and peel away, exposing his skull and the glittering silver teeth that replaced those that had fallen out. The feathers of his hat withered and drooped. The leather of his large trifold hat was scarred, rotten and faded. His clothes turned to rags – dull and torn – as they hung from his frail skeleton.

“We are not dead either,” Chris continued. “We have all the desires of the living – hunger, thirst, lust – but we cannot satisfy them. For ten years I have been parched of thirst and unable to quench it! Ten years I have been starving to death and haven’t died. I have not felt anything for ten years, not the wind in my hair, the spray of the sea, the pain of a knife…” He gently ran his boy fingers over his chest where Stiles had stabbed him moments ago. His eyes flicked up to the boy as he reached out to gently caress the boy’s face. “…nor the flesh of another.”

Stiles flinched back, his legs collapsing beneath him. He fell to the ground and wheeled backwards.

Argent dropped his hand and raised the other, a bottle of wine in his grasp. He bit into the cork and pulled it free of the bottle with a loud pop. He turned his eyes to Stiles, glaring at the boy.

“You had best start believing in ghost stories, Mister Hale; you’re in one.”

Chris raised the bottle to his mouth and tipped back his head. The liquid ran straight through him. The dark wine spilt across his jaw and down through his chest. Ruby-red droplets crashed over his ribs and stained his clothes.

Stiles scrambled to his feet and ran past Argent into the study. He pulled the doors shut behind him but not fast enough to avoid Chris hurling the wine bottle at him. The bottle struck the door, raining shards of glass and drops of red wine over the boy.

He pulled the doors shut and fumbled with the lock. His hands trembling as he grabbed at the small handle of the look. The metal rattled as he slid the bar across.

He heard the loud, unrestrained laughter of the crew, the sound echoing through him as he collapsed to the floor.

He curled up on the floor, his body trembling violently.

He dragged himself into the shadows beneath the Captain’s desk, pulling his knees to his chest in the small space.

He bit into his lip, trying desperately to stifle his sobs as he began to cry like the terrified child he was.


	8. VIII

Peter stood proud behind the wheel of the large ship, feeling the cool ocean breeze against his face and the smooth vanished wooden handles of the wheel in his hands.

Derek wandered about the deck, tightening the lines and monitoring the knots.

Peter looked down at him before returning his cool blue eyes seaward.

“For someone who hasn’t been on a ship since you were a child, you certainly know a lot about ships,” Peter called.

Derek froze.

“You certainly are a quick study,” Peter continued, his eyes focused on the horizon. “Or, perhaps, it’s something you picked up from your father?”

“I worked as a cabin boy on a passage from England eight years ago,” Derek explained. He made his way up the small staircase to the higher deck. “My mother passed away and I came out looking for my father.”

Peter flinched but quickly regained his composure. “Your father? Is that so?”

“Yes, my father. Robert Hale.”

Peter said nothing.

The man was testing Derek’s patience.

“I’m not a simpleton, Peter. You know something and you’re not telling me,” Derek growled.

“What makes you think I know something?” Peter asked.

“When I busted you out of jail, you only agreed to help me after you learnt my name,” Derek pointed out. “Since an agreement was all I wanted, I didn’t press the matter, but you are holding back.”

Peter kept his eyes on the calm waters.

“You knew my father, didn’t you?” Derek asked.

Peter sighed.

“I knew your father,” he admitted, his face void of expression. “I knew your mother too, and your sisters. Your mother was my sister and your father was my shipmate. I was one of few who knew him as Robert, others called him Robbie, or Cannonball.”

Derek frowned in confusion. “Cannonball?”

“It started as a joke. Robert was the only man who was strong enough to throw a cannonball. But he became infamous when they strapped one to his boots, tied a rope around his chest and keelhauled him.” Peter sighed heavily. “He was a good man. A good pirate, too. And clever, I’ve never met a man as clever as him: skilful with his mind and his hands. When you were trying to work out how to break down that door, you looked just like him. In fact, you’re the splitting image of your father.”

“That’s not true,” Derek snapped.

“I swear,” Peter mused. “If you grew a beard and kept it short, you would look just like him.”

“No, you’re lying about my father being a pirate!”

“I figured you wouldn’t want to hear that,” Peter explained. “That’s why I never said anything.”

“My father was a merchant. He was an honourable, respectable man who obeyed the law and followed the rules,” Derek argued.

“No,” Peter corrected. “He and I told your mother to tell people that lie so that she, your sisters and yourself would not be persecuted or walked to the gallows for association and relation to a pirate. He insisted that she shouldn’t take his name in marriage in fear that it would only get you all hanged, and he made her promise not to tell you and your sisters that he was a pirate. He wanted you to think he was an honourable man.”

“My father was not a pirate!” Derek bellowed.

He drew his sword and pointed it at Peter’s throat.

Peter exhaled deeply and looked at Derek with an unimpressed look.

“Killing me won’t change the fact that your father was a pirate,” Peter pointed out. “In fact, all it will do is rid you of the last surviving member of your family and forfeit any chance you have of saving your dear Stiles. And if you were to kill me you would be stranded at sea; you wouldn’t be able to return to port because the people of Beacon Hills will have you prosecuted for treason and piracy. And finally, remember how this ended last time.”

Derek glared at him.

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Put it away, Derek,” Peter scolded. “It’s not worth it, unless you want to be beaten again.”

“You didn’t beat me,” Derek growled. “You ignored the rules of engagement. In a fair fight, I would kill you.”

“Then that’s not much incentive for me to fight fair, now, is it?”

Derek refused to lower his weapon.

Peter sighed and kicked a nearby lever.

There was a loud groan as the main sail swung around. The large wooden log slammed into Derek’s gut and swept him off of his feet and off of the ship.

The younger man’s sword clattered against the deck as Derek desperately clung to the thick wooden log. His legs thrashed about as he dangled above the water.

Peter grabbed a nearby loop of rope and wound it around the handles of the wheel, holding it on course.

He casually made his way over to the edge of the ship, collecting Derek’s sword as he did.

“Considering you’re just hanging there with your life in my hands, you’d better pay attention,” Peter warned. “Must, should, do, do not, shall, shall not, those are all suggestions as to a way a man can behave. There are only two certain things: what a man can do and what a man can’t do. For instance: you can accept that your father was a pirate and was still a good man who loved you, your mother and your sisters with all his heart, or you can’t. Regardless, he was and his pirate blood runs through your veins so you’ll have to come to terms with that sooner or later. Now, me, I can leave you to hang there and sail this ship to Tortuga all by myself, but – as your uncle – I made a promise to your mother, and I can’t let you drown.”

Peter took a step back and crossed the deck. He pulled the lever and ducked as the sail swung back into place.

Derek dropped from the log, hitting the deck with a loud thud. He rolled onto his back with a pained grunt.

Peter walked back over to his side and carefully took the blade of Derek’s sword in his hand, offering the hilt to the young man.

Derek took it, curious as to why Peter trusted him.

Derek dropped his arm and lifted himself onto his elbows, looking at his uncle with a raised brow and a confused expression. “Tortuga?”

Peter returned to the wheel and unfastened the rope to take control of the ship once again. A devilish smirk played on his lips as he confirmed, “Tortuga.”

 

“Welcome to Tortuga,” Peter announced as he stepped off of the anchored ship and onto the rotting docks. “The port that the tide dragged in. It’s the festering port that consummates the filth of the world – thieves, drunkards, scoundrels, pirates, privateers, and prostitutes. Just stay close to me, kid.”

Derek did as instructed, staying one step behind his uncle as they wove their way through the streets.

This place was far less civilised than Beacon Hills.

Livestock ran free around their feet: squawking chickens, squealing donkeys, scraggy dogs and shrieking cats. Drunkards staggered down the streets, starting fights with anyone or anything nearby, including brick walls. Women shrieked with joy as men poured ale over their barely-dressed bodies and buried their faces between their breasts or between their legs.

Peter led Derek towards a local tavern.

“We need a crew,” Peter told him. “We can manage the ship between islands, but open sea is a whole other matter.”

“Just do it quickly,” Derek whispered. “I’d like to get out of here as soon as possible.”

Peter shoved open the door to the tavern and stepped inside. He showed himself to a seat in the corner and sat down as if he were at home.

“Don’t worry,” Peter replied. “I’ve already got my quartermaster, I just need to find him.”

A young barmaid made her way over to the table, the long copper waves of her hair bouncing off her shoulders with her graceful movements. She set her tray down before the men for a moment and turned to Peter.

Derek saw the colour drain from Peter’s face as a glimmer of terror passed over him.

The man wasn’t given a chance to react.

The woman slammed her fist into his jaw, knocking him to the ground.

The bar was silent for a moment before the sounds of light chatter, sloshing alcohol and thunking of mugs returned.

Peter let out a pained groan and curled up on the ground for a moment.

“You stole my ship,” the young woman hissed.

“Lydia, I’m sorry,” Peter apologised. He pushed himself upright and rubbed at his sore jaw. “Have you seen McCall?”

Lydia backhanded him, dropping him to the floor again.

“Borrowed,” Peter corrected himself. “I _borrowed_ your ship… without permission.”

Lydia charged at him again but Peter shuffled back out of her reach, using his foot to pull a chair in between them.

He leapt to his feet.

“Your ship is in the harbour of Beacon Hills,” he told her.

That seemed to make her even more mad.

“That ship was my livelihood,” she growled.

Derek sat forward in his seat slightly.

“Miss, please” he interrupted.

Lydia span about, gracefully.

“I’m sure Peter deserves every bit of hell you’re about to unleash on him and _he will do his best to repay his debts_ ,” Derek said lowly, glaring at Peter to makes sure the message got across. “But, please, we need to get on our way... There is someone I care dearly about and their life is in danger, so, we need to set sail as soon as possible. Could you please direct us in the way of…?”

“McCall,” Peter finished.

Lydia drew in a steady breath and replied, “He’s out the back. Talk to the barkeep, he’ll give you a bucket of water to take with you.”

Without another word, she gathered her tray of drinks and strutted away.

Peter exhaled deeply and slowly rose to his feet. He dusted himself off and made his way over to the bar with Derek in tow. They followed Lydia’s instructions and took buckets of water out to the barn behind the bar.

The young man they were looking for was curled up, fast asleep, at the bottom of a pig pen.

Piglets pranced around him, gently nudging him and squealing as they ran away.

Derek peered closer.

The young man seemed familiar.

Before he could put a name to the face, Peter tossed his bucket of water over the young man.

He woke with a start, coughing and spluttering as he roared, “Curse you for breathing, you slack-jawed son of a…”

He blinked heavily and wiped the water and mud from his face.

Patches of olive skin showed through beneath the dirt and grime. From beneath the limp, wet mess of his thick black curls, his dark brown eyes met Peter’s cold gaze. The young man’s features twisted as he glared at the man.

“Peter Hale,” the young man muttered. “You should know better than to wake a man when he’s sleeping; it’s bad luck.”

“Luckily, I know how to counter it,” Peter replied calmly. “The man who did the waking just has to buy the man who was sleeping a drink. And while the man who was sleeping drinks said drink, he can listen to the proposition that the man who did the waking has for him.”

The young man rolled his eyes.

Derek blinked with shock, as if that minute gesture was all it took for the pieces to fall together.

“Scott?” Derek whispered.

The young man turned his dark eyes to the second man. His jaw fell slack.

“Mother Mary,” Scott breathed. “If it isn’t young Derek. I haven’t seen you since…”

“The crossing from England,” Derek finished.

“How have you been?” Scott asked with a kind smile.

“Pleasantries aside,” Peter interrupted. “We are in a little bit of a hurry. Someone’s life is on the line and I, personally, would like to get out of here before Lydia decides to make another attempt on my life.”

“Fine,” Scott agreed, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Buy me a drink and I’ll listen to you proposition.”

Derek tossed his bucket of water over the young man.

“Blast it,” Scott shouted. “I’m already awake!”

“I know,” Derek said calmly, looking Scott up and down before nodding towards the pigs. “That was for the smell.”

 

Scott and Peter sat down at one of the tables, sipping at tankards of rum as they talked in hushed voices. Derek stood by the far wall, not wanting to get involved with anything or anyone.

Scott’s soft brown eyes watched the young man.

The fabric of his shirt rippled as he folded his arms across his chest, the open collar dipping down over his collarbone to reveal the patch of toned beige skin. He was so much older than when they had met and the shadows beneath his eyes showed how much he had aged. His hair was dark and thick. He had let it grow out and pulled it back into a small bun, a couple of strands breaking free of the tie to sit around his face. There was a shadow of soft whiskers that cast a shadow across his jaw and framing his sharp cheekbones, but it was hardly enough to be called a beard. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows. His face was set in a natural scowl as he surveyed the room. The colour of his irises shifted in the light; from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused.

A couple of people stumbled past, paying no attention to Peter or Scott, but some were intoxicated enough to risk flirting with Derek.

“So what’s the proposition of yours?” Scott asked.

“I need a crew,” Peter said, getting straight to the point.

Scott sighed and sat back in his seat. “That’s going to be difficult. Your name is cursed in these waters. No-one is dumb enough to sail with you.”

“Now, how – I wonder – would anyone come to think so badly of me?” Peter drawled, glaring accusingly at Scott.

“I’m not the only person you’ve stabbed in the back, Peter.”

Scott took a long drink from his mug.

Peter leant forward and whispered, “I’m going after the _Lunar Eclipse_.”

“Care to repeat that?” Scott requested, horrified by the man’s words.

“I’m going after the _Lunar Eclipse_ ,” Peter repeated. “I know where it’ll be and I’m going to take what’s rightfully mine.”

“That’s a fool’s errand,” Scott hissed.

“Not if said fool has something that Argent wants, something he needs.” He glanced over his shoulder at Derek.

“What would Argent want Derek for?” Scott asked.

“That kid, over there, is the son of the infamous Cannonball Hale,” Peter explained.

Scott’s eyes were wide with shock as he looked from Peter to Derek and then back to the man before him.

“There might be some sailors on this rock that are crazier than you, and you know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, but I’d be damned if I see you give up the life of a good man like Derek for the sake of your own vendetta.”

“I just need a crew to help me get a ship across the ocean. After that, it’s up to the kid and me to deal with what happens next,” Peter said lowly.

“Does he know what you intend to do?” Scott asked, his voice hinting at a threat.

“No, but he’s willing to risk death for the one they’re currently holding hostage,” Peter explained. “So, I need a crew by morning. Think you can do that?”

Peter raised his mug.

Scott sighed and returned the gesture, tapping his mug against Peter’s. “I can do that.”


	9. IX

The scraggly crew was gathered on the dock as the early morning sun rose over the horizon.

“This is the best you could do?” Peter asked.

“Like I said last night, your name is cursed in these waters. No-one is dumb enough to sail with you,” Scott muttered from where he sat, slumped on a barrel.

“Okay,” Peter muttered. “Who have we got here?”

“A ship as big as yours, you’d need at least ten people to sail it across the seas,” Scott explained. “Each one of those who stand before you are loyal, sea-faring men with experience on their back and adventure on their minds.”

Peter raised his hand and began to make his way down the line up. He paused before one of them and raised his brow. An amused smirk spread over his face as he looked down at the short figure who was dressed in rags that were a few sizes too big for their small build.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Lydia,” Peter muttered. “Besides, you look better in a dress… or nothing at all.”

Lydia slapped him, the loud crack echoing across the harbour.

Peter quickly steadied himself before he fell to the deck. He breathed deeply and regained his composure as he turned back to Lydia. “I will get you a ship, if that’s what you’re here for.”

“I’m here to make sure you keep your word and don’t stab me or anyone else in the back again,” Lydia announced.

Peter glanced over his shoulder at Scott.

The young man shrugged.

“You’ll have your ship,” Derek promised. “Once we’re done, you can have that ship.”

Lydia’s eyes turned to where Derek was pointing.

“That ship?” Peter squawked.

“Yes, _that_ _ship_ , because that’s not reason we’re doing this,” Derek howled. “That ship, you and that blasted treasure mean nothing to me, and if you don’t hold up on your end of the deal, so help me, I’ll make you regret it for every second of what is left of your miserable life!”

Peter took a step back and turned to face Lydia.

“After this, you can have that ship,” Peter agreed.

She nodded and smirked as Peter turned his back to her.

“Fine,” Peter agreed. “You can come aboard if you don’t go sleeping with every man on board the ship.”

Lydia looked like she was about to hit him again but he quickly stepped out of his reach and made his way down the line.

“Isn’t it bad luck to have a woman aboard?” Derek asked Scott.

“It’d be worse if we didn’t let her on board,” Scott replied, taking a sip of whiskey from a small silver flask.

“What’s your name, kid?” Peter asked a young man further down the line.

“Isaac,” he replied.

“Isaac, do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger and almost certain death?”

The young man levelled his gaze with Peter and asked, “Do you?”

Peter looked impressed. He nodded and took a step forward. “That goes for the rest of you. If you don’t have what it takes, turn around and march yourselves back to the bar.”

No-one moved.

“Okay, that’s good.”

Peter looked up and down the line. He paused and made his way over to another figure.

“What are you doing here?” Peter growled.

The person before him remained quiet.

Peter grabbed the broad rim of the hat and tossed it aside, revealing the young woman’s face.

The others turned their heads in unison, staring across the dock at the young girl.

She didn’t seem fazed.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat braid that fell down her back. A few coils had broken free from the braid and framed her glowing skin. Narrow eyebrows swept over the elegantly curves of her eyes. The curve of her nose was accentuated by her plump lips. She held her composure as she stared Peter in the eye.

“She’s with me,” Lydia announced.

“I’m not letting her on my ship,” Peter hissed.

“Too bad,” Scott called. “You want to get to Argent? You need her.”

“I refuse to bring this hell spawn on my ship,” Peter snapped.

“Peter,” Derek yelled. “We’re wasting time. And if anything happens to him because you decided to pick a fight, I will unleash a level of hell that you have never experienced before.”

Peter sighed. “Fine. Everyone aboard and man your stations.”

Everyone made their way up the gangplank and went about the duties that Scott has assigned them.

Lydia set herself up behind the wheel while others went about pulling down the sails. The canvas cracked and was pulled taut by the breeze.

The mysterious girl made her way over to Derek’s side and helped him pull the anchor up and secure it in place. They made their way along the side of the ship and unfasted the ropes that secured the large ship to the dock.

They returned to the main deck to help others, a few minutes later they were underway.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get us underway,” Peter said, shooing Lydia away from the wheel.

Lydia huffed and took a step back.

“You’re a great navigator, Lydia,” Peter called after her as she strutted down the small staircase. “I promise I’ll let you take the wheel in a few hours.”

“Allison, keep an eye on him,” Lydia muttered under her breath as she strutted past them and made her way beneath deck.

Derek glanced over his shoulder.

“I’m going to check on supplies,” Derek told Allison before turning to walk across the deck.

Derek made his way below deck, tugging his jacket off of his built frame and tossing it over a nearby hammock.

He heard the quiet shuffle of feet and the rustle of fabric.

He glanced up at the nearby figure.

It took him a moment to realise he wasn’t staring at pale fabric, but bare flesh.

A short gasp escaped his lips as he quickly turned around.

“Sorry,” he apologised profusely as he turned to make his way back to the ladder.

“You don’t have to be so scared,” Lydia whispered. “It’s just anatomy.”

Derek swallowed hard, keeping his eyes fixed on the wooden rungs of the ladder as her footsteps crept closer. Her boots gently tapped at the wooden boards that covered the floor of that level.

“Unless, of course, it’s not this kind of anatomy that you would prefer,” she purred.

Derek tightened his grip on the ladder, his heart pounding against the ribs.

“Calm down, sweetheart,” Lydia said reassuringly, turning and walking back towards her bunk.

Derek heard the rustling of fabric as she continued to change and dressed again.

“I’m not one to judge,” she told him. She strutted back over to his side, sliding around him and leaning back against the ladder. She was now dressed in a billowing white shirt and a free-flowing blue skirt. Her chest was pressed against his and her face dangerously close to his as she whispered, “I don’t exactly live my life by the Bible and the God I pray to doesn’t care if you lay out of wedlock or with another man; he only cares about the weight of your soul. And as long as we’re sailing beneath that flag, we’re all sinners.”


	10. X

The ship sailed smoothly across the open waters.

Peter stared down at the compass in his hand, studying it meticulously as the needle tremored and span slightly.

“Bear three points starboard,” Peter instructed.

Lydia followed his instructions, turning the wheel and redirecting the ship as per the Captain’s orders.

The compass needle redirected and span about.

“Six points to port,” Peter called.

Lydia frowned but followed his orders. She turned the wheel back and the ship responded.

Derek met Lydia’s frustrated gaze and offered her a weak smile.

She returned it before lifting her eyes to the horizon.

“I don’t trust him,” Isaac muttered, his glare fixed on Peter.

“Neither do I,” Derek admitted, keeping his voice low. “But we don’t have any other choice.”

“I trust Scott,” Isaac said, looking across at the quartermaster who slowly made his way around the ship to check on everyone. “But I don’t trust Peter. I don’t like him.”

“No-one likes him.”

“Say what you’d like about my age,” Peter called from up on high. “But my ability to hear is not yet hindered.” He turned his sharp eyes on the young men. “It’s rude to talk about someone behind their back.”

Without missing a beat, Derek set the bundle of rope he was tying down and turned to his uncle to bluntly reply, “We don’t like you.”

Peter shrugged and left them to return to their duties.

Scott made his way over, an amused smirk playing on his lips. He sat down beside Derek and leant back against the railing of the ship. He picked up a bundle of ropes and began to help coil them.

Isaac gave a curt nod and carried his tied ropes off to where they were needed.

Peter continued to give Lydia orders and she followed them to the letter, but every turn of the ship frustrated Derek more and more.

“How are we meant to find an island that doesn’t exist with a compass that doesn’t work?”

“Just because it doesn’t point north, doesn’t mean it doesn’t work,” Scott replied calmly. “The compass gives the bearings of the Isla de Muerta, wherever it may lie.”

“Really?” Derek asked.

Scott nodded.

Derek shuffled closer. “So, what’s his deal?”

“What do you man?”

“He’s always bitter and he carries a compass with one purpose and a pistol with only one shot that he refuses to use?” Derek’s eyes flicked up to his uncle for a second. “What’s up with that?”

“He’s waiting for the perfect opportunity,” Scott replied. “Just because Peter’s a pirate, that doesn’t make him an honest man. You see, he used to be the captain of the _Lunar Eclipse_ , but he doesn’t tell people that anymore because he learnt very quickly to play things close to his chest. Peter was a cartographer in Old England and when he came into some money, he commissioned a man to build a ship: the _Lunar Eclipse_. He hired a crew and set sail. Forty days into their journey the first mate said that Peter should set all cards on the table otherwise it’s not the fair share that he promised. So, Peter gave up the bearings of the island and, that night, there was mutiny.”

Scott paused for a moment before leaning in closer.

“Peter was a good man. He gave himself up for the sake of his crewmen, to ensure they didn’t get hurt. The traitorous bastard he called his first mate gave Peter his compass and a pistol with one shot – meant for himself. They marooned him on an island and left him for dead.”

“How did he get off the island?” Derek pushed.

“I didn’t,” Peter said loudly, startling the two. He had appeared beside them and now towered over the young men. “My body’s still there, rotting away while seagulls peck at my innards, and I am a ghost.”

“How _did_ you get off the island?” Scott asked.

“Sea turtles,” Peter replied.

Derek frowned in confusion, not sure whether he believed his uncle or not.

“I strapped them together and made a raft,” Peter continued. “Then I made my way to a populated island and was on my way.”

“How did you tie them together if you didn’t have any rope?” Derek queried.

“I used the shirt off of my back and tore it to shreds. And when I ran out, I wove my chest hair into a braid and used that,” Peter answered.

Peter turned swiftly to return to his post by Lydia’s side when Derek called after him, “Wait, what about the pistol?”

Peter paused and glanced over his shoulder. “When you’re marooned, you’re given a pistol with a single shot. No good for hunting no help in surviving and only good for killing yourself. Bout after three weeks of starvation and thirst, the pistol starts to look rather friendly.”

Peter’s hand trailed over the pistol, feeling the ornate engravings of the handle as he continued, “But I survived and I still have that single shot. So I’m saving it for the man who stabbed me in the back.”

He glared across the deck at Allison before making his way back up to the wheel.

Scott bowed his head and whispered, “He’s Allison’s father.”

“Who?”

“’Captain’ Chris Argent.”

 

The world was engulfed in a sheet of dreary grey fog. The mist rolled through the air, leaving thin droplets of water across any surface it came across.

Derek slouched against the main mast, staring out across the waters and hoping to see any sign of life. His sparkling aventurine eyes had begun to fade, the glimmer of hope and joy that had once lit them was now diminishing.

What if they were too late? What if Stiles was already dead? What if the pirates had already killed him to get their way? What did they want him for anyway?

The peace and quiet was disturbed by a loud thud, the thundering boom echoing through the hollow hull of the ship.

Derek flinched, turning his wide eyes to Scott.

“What was that?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Many ships have been lost on this path, and the men who sailed them have sunk to the depths with them,” Scott whispered, tightening a nearby rope.

“What does that mean?”

Scott was about to grace Derek with an answer when a few members of the crew began a low hum: a quiet, respectful, singing of a well-known shanty and the closest thing they had to a funeral procession:

 

_Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest-_

_Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum._

_Drink and the devil had done for the rest-_

_Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum._

 

Their voices died off as they kept their eyes on the horizon.

There was another loud thud and a drawn out groan.

From across the deck, Derek heard Isaac mutter, “Dead men tell no tales.”

The older boy’s eyes grew wide, partially out of shock but mostly out of fear and worry as he turned to look at Peter. Their lives were in the hands of an untrustworthy pirate whose face was permanently set in a stern expression which hid all of his secrets.

Peter’s unwavering scow was focused on the misty veil that soaked the ship as he guided the vessel forward.

“It’s a graveyard for ships,” Scott explained. “Too many good men have lost their way.”

There was an eerie quiet as they sailed on for a few minutes in silence.

Derek opened his mouth to speak when Isaac called across the ship, “Land ho!”

Through the thin veil of fog, the faint outline of a rocky island began to appear.

“The Isla de Meurta,” Scott muttered under his breath.

“Lydia, take the wheel,” Peter instructed. “Weigh anchor and prepare a longboat.”

The man strutted down the small staircase and cross the deck to Derek’s side.

 “What about Argent and the _Eclipse_?” Scott asked.

“He’ll have dropped anchor and brought her to the bay on the lee side, using the island to shield her from the weather. Use the fog to your advantage and keep her hidden.”

“And if the worst is to happen?” Scott muttered, turning his dark eyes to Peter.

The man thought for a moment, turning his cold glare towards the Isla de Meurta. His composure didn’t falter as he replied, “Stick to the code.”

Peter turned his icy-blue eyes to Derek nodded towards the small row boat that the crew steadied over the side of the ship. “Come on, kid. We’re going ashore.”


	11. XI

Stiles peered through a small piece of clear glass among the stained mural that marked the Captain’s cabin.

The ship had been still for a long time now and the pirates were waiting for low tide before they lowered the longboats and went ashore.

Out on deck he noticed two figures standing by the mast, talking quietly to each other. They were the two pirates who had invaded his house and pulled him into this mess: Erica and Boyd.

Stiles noticed their quiet exchange of gentle touches: her hand on his wrist or bicep, him gently caressing her cheek or lifting her chin with a finger to look her in the eye, the loving nuzzle of their foreheads, and the faintest of touches as she ran her fingers along the palm of his hand as if she wanted to hold it but couldn’t.

Their moment of peace was interrupted but the thundering footsteps of the first mate as she emerged from the gallows.

“Fetch the boy,” Kate ordered. “We’re heading to shore.”

Stiles scurried away from the window and stood at the far end of the cabin, backed up against the wall.

The brass doorhandle rattled as it opened and the two stepped inside.

“Come on, poppet,” Erica encouraged. “It’s time to go.”

Stiles remained still as Boyd approached him.

The large man seemed much more placid this time, waiting for Stiles to move before taking action.

Stiles noticed the small piece of rope in Boyd’s hands and let out a heavy sigh.

“Is that really necessary?” Stiles asked.

“Just a precaution,” Boyd answered.

Stiles flinched slightly; it was the first time he had heard the man speak. It was nothing like he had expected: deep and hoarse, but soft and kind at the same time.

Stiles tried to calm his racing heartbeat and blink back his tears of fear as he extended his hands.

Boyd coiled the rope around Stiles’ slender wrists, securing it in place with a thick knot.

“Too tight?” Boyd asked.

Stiles shook his head.

Boyd nodded curtly and stepped aside.

Stiles took another shaky deep breath and began to walk forward. He dragged his bare feet across the carpet as he made his way over to the door. He paused for a moment and turned back to Boyd.

“I’m sorry about the ashes,” Stiles apologised. “I was scared and it was the only thing I had to defend myself. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You fight well,” Boyd told him. “You fight dirty, like a pirate.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“Apology accepted,” the older boy acknowledged with a small nod. “Although there’s no need for it.”

“Come on, darling,” Erica said quietly. She rested her hand on Stiles’ shoulder and walked him out onto the deck.

The ice air bit at his bare toes. The deck was wet from the mist and he struggled not to skid across the wooden boards as he made his way towards the longboat.

Beside it, Captain Argent was waiting.

Stiles paused as Argent took a step closer. He lifted his chin defiantly, acting as if he had more courage than he actually did.

Argent rounded him.

Stiles flinched as something was lowered before his face.

Chris secured the necklace in place and let the chain hang from Stiles’ neck.

A soft sigh fell from Stiles’ lips and his shoulders dropped slightly with the comfort of the familiar weight and the sensation of the pendant tapping against his rigid collarbone.

Chris’s heavy boots thundered against the deck as he walked around Stiles, looking the boy up and down with harsh judgment before climbing into the longboat and holding out his hand.

Stiles reluctantly took a hold of it and climbed into the boat.

A few more crew members climbed into the boat before it was lowered and they began to row towards the island. The small boat wavered under the weight of so many men. The unsteady waves that radiated off of the island did not offer any help, instead, stirring the boat even more.

Stiles tried his hardest to steady his breathing, but the air was thin and he could only manage to hold down short gasps. His lips were trembling and his body shuddered, although it was not from the freezing cold winds. His heart pounded painfully against his ribcage as the small boat neared the terrifying darkness of the cave.

Foaming white waves crashed against the black rock, spraying water over them as they pulled into the small cave.

Suddenly, everything was quiet.

There was no sound besides the rugged breathing of the men and the sloshing of the oars hitting the water.

Chris helped Stiles out of the boat and guided him through the rocky tunnels and into the main cavern, revealing the magnificent sight of the hauled treasure. There were mountains of loot: crowns, gauntlets, jewellery and every kind of precious belonging imaginable. There were heavy chests that were overflowing with coins. There were mounds of gold and silver ingots, sculpted pieces of jade and ivory, brightly coloured silks and gold-embroidered dress clothes. Gleaming jewel-encrusted mirrors, shiny pearls, glistening swords and everything that could be considered of value and could fit on a ship: it was all here.

The pirates moved about the place with a sense of familiarity while Stiles stood, frozen in place and staring at it with wonder.

A large figure stopped beside him, glaring at the ridiculous sight of the men frolicking about in the piles of gold and talking about what they’re going to do once the curse was lifted: where they’d go, what they’d drink, what they’d eat, and who they’d sleep with. Kate rolled her eyes at the pitiful sight and marched on over to Chris’ side, talking quietly with him.

“The curse compelled you to gather all of this?” Stiles asked.

Chris span around to face him.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And not a piece of it is any good to us, only hoarded and hidden.”

The Captain took a step forward and slid his finger beneath Stiles’ chin, tilting the boy’s head up to meet his ravenous gaze.

“But, soon, that will all be over. You will help us break the curse and when we’re free we shall do with this hoard as we wish.”

 

Peter and Derek pulled their boat ashore and moved about the small caves as quietly as they could.

“What code is Scott and the crew to follow if the worst is to happen?” Derek asked.

“The pirate’s code: any man that falls behind gets left behind,” Peter answered.

“No honour among thieves,” Derek muttered to himself as he followed his uncle up towards a small tunnelling cave.

“You know, for someone with such a bleak outlook on pirates, you’re not far off from becoming one; you busted a man from jail, you commandeered a ship – and one of the royal navy, none the less – and you sailed a buccaneer crew out of Tortuga.” He paused for a moment, looking down at a small pile of gleaming gold coins before glancing over his shoulder at Derek. “ _And_ you’re completely obsessed with treasure.”

“I am not,” Derek growled defensively.

Peter crept up to a small window-like opening that overlooked the main cavern. He glanced over at his nephew and whispered, “Not all treasure is silver and gold, kid.”

Derek crept forward and looked towards what had caught Peter’s attention.

The small figure stood on top of the large mountain of treasure in the centre of the cavern, beside Captain Argent whose booming voice rang in the air and echoed in the confined space.

Derek ignored him, his eyes focused on the slender figure by his side, silent and hands bound. He was dressed in a fine black suit with a gleaming medallion around his neck and his unkempt brown hair balled into Argent’s hand. The young man’s face was contorted with pain as he fell back into the pirate’s rough hold.

“Stiles,” Derek whispered weakly, the name falling from his lips before he had a chance to stop it.

Peter grabbed a hold of Derek before he had a chance to leap through the opening and ruin everything.

“Please, Derek, listen to me,” the older man said quietly. “You have to wait until the opportune moment.”

“And when’s that?” Derek hissed, swatting away Peter’s hands. “When it most profits you?”

“Let me ask you this, have I yet given you a reason not to trust me?”

Derek didn’t answer; no, he hadn’t.

“Just stay here and don’t do anything stupid,” Peter instructed as he crept past Derek. “I will get your dear Stiles. It’s… a matter of leverage.”

Derek let out a heavy sigh and followed his uncle.

He grabbed an oar from one of the rowboats and swung it at his uncle. He struck Peter over the head with it, stunning the man for a moment at the wood splintered. There was a second of quiet before Peter’s body staggered and he collapsed to the ground.

Derek stepped around him, dragging him up into the cave and away from the waves that lapped at him like the hands of the damned, wanting to drag the man to his death.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Derek whispered. “I won’t be your leverage.”

 

Stiles’ breath hissed through his gritted teeth and his skull burnt with pain as Argent tugged at his messy locks.

“Do you know what the first thing I’m going to do after the curse is lifted is?” Chris asked, his voice bitter and venomous. “I’m going to eat a whole bushel of apples.”

“Just get this over with,” Stiles hissed.

“Alright then,” Chris agreed.

A column of light filtered down through the hole in the ceiling and illuminated a heavy stone chest. The dirty grey chest was bathed in light, the glow rippling off of it as if it were water.

Argent leant back and kicked the heavy lid off with his solid boot, revealing an entire chest of gold coins that were all identical to the one around Stiles’ neck.

The lid skidded down the mountain of treasure, causing a small avalanche of gold coins and trinkets.

Argent waited for the rustling metals to fall quiet before he continued, “We stand here before the cursed treasure of Cortés. Won by blood, cursed by blood and demanding blood.”

Chris grabbed the jagged stone dagger from atop the gleaming pile of coins.

Stiles held his breath, his eyes focused on the blade as Chris brought it to his throat.

His lips trembled slightly as he closed his eyes and began to pray.

But nothing happened.

Argent pulled the blade away from his throat and the necklace along with it. He grabbed a hold of Stiles’ bound hands and turned them so that his palms were exposed.

Stiles watched with wide eyes as the man quickly sliced open the palm of his hand. Stiles let out a small yelp of pain but turned to look at Argent and asked, “Is that it?”

“Waste not,” Chris whispered. “We’re not savages.”

But his words lost their meaning as he forced Stiles to ball his hand into a fist, the jagged edges of the gold medallion digging into his broken wound.

Stiles didn’t cry out, but his breath caught in his throat as he struggled to fight the pain.

Argent pulled Stiles’ hands over the large casket of coins and howled, “What was begun by blood, let blood now end it.”

He pried open Stiles fingers and let the medallion fall free.

Time seemed to slow down as Stiles let out a soft sigh and watched the gold fall. The precious metal seemed to ring as it fell through the air, glistening as it caught the streaming light and dropping with a thundering crash as it landed among the other coins.

The pirates were silent, heads turned upwards as if they expected to be bathed in a brilliant light or sudden mortality.

After moment they began to exchange curious looks.

“Did it work?” Kate asked her brother quietly.

“I don’t feel any different,” Erica muttered.

“How do we tell?” Boyd asked.

Chris rolled his eyes and drew his pistol. He aimed the barrel at the young man and fired.

Stiles yelped and moved to run forward.

“You shot him!” Erica screamed. Her eyes were wide and filling with glistening tears as she stared at Boyd.

Slowly, Boyd shook his head.

“I’m not dead,” he said quietly. “It didn’t work.”

Argent turned on Stiles, livid with rage. “You! Your father, what was his name?”

Stiles remained silent, staring down the man.

Chris grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him violently. “Was your father Robert Hale?!”

“No,” Stiles replied calmly, a smug smile playing on his lips. “My father is John Stilinski.”

“Then where is the son of Robert Hale?” Chris bellowed. He snatched the blood-soaked medallion out of the casket and held it before Stiles’ face. “Where is the child that sailed from England eight years ago, the real owner of this medallion, the child in whose veins flows the blood of Robert Hale? Where?!”

“Far away from here,” Stiles answered coldly. “And you will never find him.”

Chris’ rage got the better of him. He backhanded Stiles, knocking the boy down the mountain of treasure.

Stiles blinked heavily. His ears were ringing and his vision was blurred. He could hear the dull roar of the arguing pirates and he could see the soft glittering of the blood-soaked medallion as it topped down the pile of treasure and landed on the dirty bank, just before his fingertips.

One sound caught his attention though, the quiet trickling as something disturbed the water.

He rolled his head to the other side looking across at the figure that emerged from the dark water.

A cold hand was clamped over his mouth as the young man motioned for Stiles to stay quiet.

His vision began to clear as he stared into the familiar depths of aventurine eyes.

Stiles nodded and Derek pulled his hand away. He grabbed the medallion and fell into Derek’s hands. He let the older boy guide him into the water and across to the small cavern.

“Wait,” Chris howled.

Stiles froze the man’s voice chilling him to the core.

The bickering pirates fell silent as the Captain asked, “Where’s the kid?”

Stiles turned slowly, meeting Chris’s enraged glare.

The young man quickly picked up a nearby silver tray and hurled it at the man. The gleaming metal smacked Argent in the face.

Derek quickly grabbed Stiles’ wrist and pulled him into the shadows.

They picked up their feet and raced towards the exit, haunted by the deafening echo of Captain Argent’s booming voice, “After them!”

 

Peter staggered slightly as he slumped against the cave wall and slowly made his way towards the rowboats.

His head was pounding and the world before him refused to stay still.

He took a few steps forward but pulled up to a halt as a group of pirates rounded the corner, cutlasses drawn and ready to fight.

Peter raised his hands in a weak surrender.

“Peter Hale?” Boyd muttered.

“If you’re looking for the boy, he went that way,” Peter slurred, pointing away from him. He waited for the pirates to turn and look before quickly adding, “I think.”

Peter span about and took a few steps before a second group of pirates blocked his path.

He let out a frustrated sigh and turned back to Boyd and Erica.

“Per… Par… Parliament… Parley!” he cried, proud for finally finding the right word.

“Damn to the depths whatever bastard ever thought up the word parley,” Kate growled as she stepped forward.

Peter gave her a twisted grin as he said, “I believe it was the French.”


	12. XII

Derek climbed up the ropes that hung down from the deck of the large ship. He slowed or stopped occasionally to help Stiles climb.

Finally, he reached the railing, spreading his legs and reaching down to pull Stiles up onto the deck.

The young man stumbled slightly but quickly regained his balance.

Stiles froze, slowly lifting his gaze to look at the small crowd that was gathered on deck. He let out a weak whimper and muttered, “Not more pirates.”

“Stiles?” one of them called. “You didn’t tell me this was for Stiles. Hell, I would have gotten a better crew and faster if I’d known it was him you were saving.”

“Hey!” Lydia cried, offended.

“Sorry,” the young man apologised before stepping forward. “Welcome aboard, Master Stilinski.”

“Scott?” Stiles asked, blinking quickly as if to dispel an illusion.

Scott bowed politely. “It’s good to see you again. Although I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Scott turned his eyes to the older boy. “Hey, Derek, where’s Peter?”

“Peter?” Stiles queried, looking from the crew to Derek. “Peter Hale?”

“He fell behind,” Derek replied bluntly, ignoring Stiles’ shock.

Scott sighed heavily before turning to the crew. “We stick to the code.”

Lydia nodded and turned about, issuing orders, “Haul anchor, secure the cargo, and drop the sails. Let’s get her underway.”

Derek turned back to Stiles.

“I don’t understand,” the young man whispered.

Derek noticed the blood that dripped from Stiles’ hand and reached forward to carefully take it in his own.

“It’s just a cut,” Stiles dismissed.

“Come on,” Derek said softly, leading Stiles below deck.

 

“Peter Hale,” Chris Argent said coldly, staring down at the man as Kate dragged him before her brother. “I thought we killed you already.”

“Well, when you marooned me on that God-forsaken strip of land you call an island, you forgot one thing: I’m Captain Peter Hale.”

Peter grinned.

Chris seemed disgusted, aggravated, by the sight.

“I’m inclined to kill you now,” Chris admitted. “And I will without so much as a word if you don’t wipe that stupid grin from your face.”

Peter’s smile didn’t falter.

Chris steadied his hand on his cutlass, ready to draw the blade.

“The kid’s blood didn’t work, did it?”

Argent hesitated.

“I know whose blood you need to break the curse,” Peter announced.

“Say the name or I slit your throat,” Chris threatened.

“No,” Peter said, displeased. “At least humour me by listening to my terms.”

Chris nodded, his cold glare making it perfectly clear that Peter had a limited time to speak.

“I have something you want more than anything – a way to free you from the curse – and you have something I want more than anything,” Peter acknowledged.

“The _Lunar Eclipse_?” Chris asked. He chuckled. “Really? How do you expect this to work? You leave me on an island with nothing more than a name and watch you sail away on my ship?”

“No, I’ll leave you on an Island and, as I sail away with _my_ ship, I’ll shout the name back to you,” Peter bargained.

“So, you want to leave me on an island with nothing while you sail away on the _Eclipse_ and leave me hoping that you keep your word and give me a name?” Chris reiterated. There was a moment of silence before he called, “Return to the ship and get ready to sail.”

“Do we have and agreement?” Peter asked excitedly.

“No,” Chris growled. “I don’t trust you, Peter. I never have. My father always told me to never trust a smiling man.”

“But you don’t have a choice,” Peter reminded him.

“I don’t care if I have to slaughter every man on earth, I will not make a deal with you!” Argent howled.

Peter levelled his glare with the man.

Argent’s composure returned as he turned to Kate and instructed, “Toss him in the brig.”

“I can wait,” Peter hissed. “And the longer I have to wait for what I want, the more you’ll tempt me to give you the wrong name.”

“Orders, Captain?” Kate asked, ignoring Peter.

“If this cretin knows who we’re after then chances are they’re on that ship, and the medallion too.” Chris turned his piercing glare on Peter but continued to speak to Kate. “Follow their ship.”


	13. XIII

They sat below deck, both silent as Stiles fumbled with the bandage he was trying to wrap around his hand. The fabric was already stained with Stiles’ blood and it kept slipping as the young man tried to wrap it around the palm of his hand.

“Let me,” Derek whispered. He cautiously reached forward and took hold of Stiles’ hand.

Stiles relinquished his hold on the bandage. He watched as Derek carefully wrapped the cloth around his hand.

His broad hands were calloused and yet they were tender as he very carefully tied the bandage in place.

Derek turned to move away.

“Don’t stop,” Stiles whispered before he could stop himself.

Derek turned back to the young man.

Stiles kept his eyes focused on Derek’s hand. He didn’t dare look up and meet his gaze.

“Please.”

Derek wound his hand around Stiles’, gently caressing the pale skin with his fingertips. He leant forward and rested his forehead against Stiles’.

A weak breath fell past Stiles’ trembling lips as he melted into the relief and comfort of Derek’s warm presence.

Stiles slowly opened his eyes to look up at Derek. He realised just how close they were. He was so close that he could see the details of Derek’s glittering peridot eyes and how the onyx depths of his pupils consumed his clear glistening irises.

Stiles leant forward and brought their lips together.

Stiles let his breath fall from his lungs as his shoulders dropped. His eyes fluttered shut again as he looped his arms around Derek’s neck, desperately clinging to the loose cotton of his shirt.

Derek’s lips were better than Stiles had ever imagined; plump, sweet and as smooth as velvet. Perfect.

The older man lifted his hand to Stiles’ neck and pulled him close, enveloping him in his warmth. His fingers ran along the thin chain that was wound around Stiles’ neck.

He pulled back from the kiss, running his finger down the chain and pulling the medallion out from beneath Stiles’ shirt.

His eyes glimmered, his mind filled with a million thoughts and Stiles held his breath, fearing the thought of Derek getting mad at him.

“You gave them my name,” Derek whispered. “Why?”

“Because I knew it was you they wanted,” Stiles explained. “I thought if I gave them your name then I could lead them away from you and you would be okay… you’d be safe.”

“How did you know it was me they wanted?”

“Because the medallion is yours.” Stiles met Derek’s gaze. “You were wearing it when we fished you out of the water eight years ago. I didn’t want them to get the wrong idea of you or hang you for piracy, so I took it.”

Stiles slid the chain over his head and offered it to Derek.

“I was going to give it back, I just got the chance,” Stiles continued. “And then they came for it and for your father’s blood, so I told them I was you.”

“It wasn’t your sacrifice to make,” Derek muttered, a harsh tone lingering in his voice.

“I’m sorry.”

Derek thumped his hand down on the table.

Stiles flinched. He held his breath and smothered his scared sobs.

Derek clenched his fist around the medallion and turned his face away from Stiles.

Tears gathered in Stiles’ eyes as he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

He rose to his feet and scurried up onto the main deck. He drew in few deep breaths, the salty air burning his lungs but providing some relief.

He paused for a moment, suddenly feeling breathless as an icy chill ran down his spine.

He turned and sprinted towards the bridge.

Stiles couldn’t breathe. It felt as if something had slammed into him. A painful burning feeling of breathlessness radiated from his chest. The warm air around him thinned, unbreathable. Hot tears burnt at his eyes, blurring his vision and streaking lights across the worlds around him.

He turned and looked at Scott.

Stiles’ lips quivered and words escaped him.

Scott made his way up the small ladder and over to Stiles’ side.

“Lydia,” he called.

“What?” replied the young woman behind the wheel.

“Go faster,” Scott instructed.

“Why?” Lydia asked suspiciously.

“Don’t look, just do it.”

Lydia ignored his instructions and glanced over her shoulder.

The dark silhouette of a ship sat on the horizon. It grew larger as it approached them at an unmatchable speed. They could see the details of its body: the rotting wood, the dark, torn canvas of the sail and the man who stood behind the wheel with a deadly glare fixed on them.

“We’re dead,” Lydia gasped.

“This is the fastest ship of the British navy fleet,” Stiles squawked. “Can’t we outrun them?”

Lydia shook her head. “There isn’t a ship in existence that can outrun the _Lunar Eclipse_.”

Stiles’ bright eyes searched the horizon.

“Over there,” he said, pointing towards a small cluster of raised islands. “If we discard some cargo and lose some weight we can lose them in the reef.”

Lydia thought for a moment before turning her jade eyes to Scott. “That might work.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Scott agreed. He ran back down the stairs and began to shout orders to the crew, “Dump the cargo: anything that’s not bolted down and we can spare, lose it. Now!”

The crew scurried about, hurling barrels and boxed over the side of the ship.

Stiles followed him onto the deck. He watched as Isaac began to unbolt a cannon.

He raced to the young man’s side and halted him.

“We may need that,” he whispered.

Lydia glanced over her shoulder.

“It’s not working,” she cried.

Everyone froze.

“It’s too late,” she said. “They’re too close for us to shake them.”

Stiles bit into his lip, his mind clouded with thoughts as he tried to think of a new plan.

“Drop the starboard anchor,” he instructed.

Lydia looked at him, confused.

“If we pivot on the anchor and come about, then we have enough time to set up the cannons and begin a barrage of fire before they start to turn and do the same,” Stiles explained. “We have no choice but to make a stand.”

“And what do you suggest we load the cannons with?” Lydia asked.

“Anything,” Derek called, from the stairwell. “Everything: forks, knives, scrap metal, any cannonballs we have left. Load them and fire them.”

Lydia drew in a deep breath.

“Derek, lower the anchor,” she instructed before raising her voice and shouting, “Man your stations!”

Derek hurried over to the starboard anchor and pulled the lever, dropping the heavy anchor to the bottom of the sea. The large chain rattled and pounded like a thundering pulse as it unravelled. The heavy anchor hit the ocean floor and the ship pulled to a halt.

The crew skidded slightly, but quickly regained their balance and continued to move about in organised chaos.

The ship groaned and the wooden boards on the starboard side splintered slightly under the strain of the pivoting force.

“Let go,” Stiles called to Lydia.

She released her grip on the wheel and quickly leapt back as it began to spin frantically. She span about and thumped her boot against a nearby lever. The wooden lever fell flat and Lydia gracefully ducked as the main mast swung about.

The momentum swung the ship about.

Allison passed Stiles a rifle and ammunition before she scurried up the stairs and raced across the bridge to Lydia’s side. She passed the young woman a rifle and asked quietly, “Are you sure?”

“We have no other choice,” Lydia whispered.

“And if he captured us…?”

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Lydia promised.

Allison swallowed hard and nodded.

Across the sea they heard Argent howl, “All hands on deck! Come about!”

They watched as the large ship began to turn.

“Cannons ready!” Scott shouted.

“Fire!” Lydia bellowed.

Scott echoed her cry and the thundering sound of cannons followed.

A couple of shots hit the _Eclipse_ , but they were quick to return fire.

Allison was the first of those above deck to load her rifle and fire it.

“Why are we even doing this?” she asked as she ducked for cover and began to reload. “They can’t die.”

No-one had an answer for her.

Stiles rose for his cover and fired.

His bullet tore through Kate’s shoulder, making her flinch.

He dove behind cover and began to reload.

There was another thundering barrage of cannon fire.

A cannonball tore through the railing beside Stiles.

The splintered wood rained over him, tearing open patches of exposed flesh.

His ears rang as he collapsed to the deck. He could hear the hollow rasp of his breath. Somewhere in the faded distance of sound, he could hear Lydia scream his name.

He wanted to call back, but he couldn’t. His lips trembled slightly as he rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky.

Dark silhouettes swung forward as the pirates stormed their ship.

A familiar figure loomed over Stiles. A hole was torn through the fabric of her shirt where his bullet had landed. A smug smirk played on her lips as she raised her sword.

There were a loud gunshot.

Kate stumbled forward, dropping her sword.

Stiles leapt to his feet and charged at the woman. His body thumped into hers, knocking her off the other side of the ship. He weakly grabbed at the ropes and pulled himself back onto the deck.

He looked back at Allison, her barrel still smoking from the fired round.

He nodded to her and she smiled in return.

Stiles scurried forward and grabbed Kate’s sword.

Another figure stepped closer.

Stiles swung the sword.

The blade was blocked by another as he met Peter’s gaze.

“That’s not very nice,” Peter scolded.

“You,” Stiles spat.

The man smirked. “Me.”

Stiles heaved in a deep breath, his deep set rage brewing.

“Where’s the medallion?” Peter asked.

Stiles raised his hand to slap Peter but the man’s reflexes were too good. He caught the boy’s wrist, his bright blue eyes turned to the bandage that was wrapped around Stiles’ hand.

Peter’s mouth twitched into a sight smirk as he purred, “Where’s dear Derek?”

Stiles flinched, his eyes wide with fear as he turned towards the ladder that led below deck.

A cannonball struck the mast, shattering the wood and dropping it over the entrance.

“Derek!” Stiles screamed.

He shoved Peter aside and raced to the entrance.

“Stiles?” he heard Derek call.

Stiles dropped to his knees and reached through the thin gap.

Derek grabbed his hand.

“I’ve got you,” Stiles called, trying his best to keep Derek above the rising surface of the water.

“Take it!” Derek ordered. “Take the medallion.”

He held it out to the boy. Stiles took it and shoved it into his pocket before he returned his attention to holding Derek upright.

“I can’t move it from down here,” Derek told Stiles.

“I can’t move it otherwise I have to let out go.”

“I’ll hold my breath. Ready?”

Stiles nodded.

Derek drew in a deep breath and ducked beneath the surface.

Stiles tried to shove the mast aside, screaming in frustration as the heavy log refused to move.

He reached down and pulled Derek back up to the surface.

“I can’t move it,” Stiles cried, his voice breaking slightly with a soft apology.

Derek’s hand was wet and his grip was weak, slipping through Stiles’ hand.

“Stiles, go,” Derek instructed.

“No,” Stiles refused. “I won’t.”

“Stiles, save yourself.”

“No, I won’t let you go,” Stiles promised.

The water rose, consuming Derek’s chest and engulfing him.

“I won’t let you go,” Stiles repeated.

Derek’s eyes glittered with pain. His hand slipped from Stiles’ grasp and he dropped beneath the water.

“Derek!”

Someone grabbed Stiles from behind, holding his arms back and leaving him unable to fight back.

Stiles thrashed about, screaming for Derek.

His bare feet thumped against the pirate’s shins, but to no avail.

Kate hurled him onto the cold deck of the _Lunar Eclipse_.

Stiles screamed and called out for Derek, but his cries were unanswered.

Kate backhanded him, silencing the boy.

He fell weakly to the wet wooden boards of the deck.

Lydia pulled Stiles back into her arms to shield the boy as Kate sauntered towards them.

Argent stepped in her way, interrupting her. His eyes were focused on Allison, the icy blue depths full of shock, confusion and pain.

“Allison?” he whispered, reaching out to gently stroke her cheek.

Allison flinched and turned away.

Argent’s features twisted into a painful despair as he asked her, “Is this really where your loyalties lie?”

Allison refused to speak.

Lydia cautiously reached for her hand and Allison took it.

“I stand with those who don’t betray me, abuse me or neglect me,” Allison replied, her voice was level and cold.

Chris drew in a deep breath.

“So be it,” he growled.

He turned and nodded to a member of his crew.

The young man quickly ran about the main mast and wound a rope around them. He pulled it tight and tied them in place.

The other members of Argent’s crew set up a trail of gun powder that trailed into the hull of the ruined ship.

Kate smirked, meeting Stiles’ gaze as she lit it.

Stiles thrashed about in the ropes, weakening them to the point where he could slip beneath them.

He ran forward.

The deafening boom split the air. The explosion engulfed the ship. The force knocked the air from Stiles’ lungs as he collapsed to his knees and let out a distraught cry.

Lydia, Scott and Peter were silent and still as they watched the ship sink below the surface.

“Derek,” Peter whispered weakly.

Tears fell from Stiles’ eyes, shattering like crystals across the deck.

Chris’s thundering footsteps made their way over to Stiles’ side. He wound his hand around Stiles’ throat and hoisted the boy off of his feet.

Stiles gasped and sputtered, choking on his breath as he weakly thrashed about and clawed at Chris’s hand.

“Welcome back, Mister _Stilinski_ ,” Chris growled. He reached into Stiles’ pocket and retrieved the amulet. “You know, I don’t like being played for a fool. So, let’s stop pretending. I hope your stay this time will be more pleasant.” He turned his eyes towards his crew and shouted, “Boys, show him some hospitality!”

He hurled Stiles into the waiting crowd.

The men clawed at his clothes and groped at his flesh. He bounced between one man and another as they all laughed and fondled the boy.

Stiles squirmed and cried out as he fought back.

A soaking wet figure leapt onto the deck. He grabbed Kate and span her around. He slammed his head against hers, shattering her nose with a loud crack. He grabbed her gun and shoved her back into her brother’s arms.

The crew fell still and quiet as they turned their eyes to the intruder.

Chris steadied his sister and stepped forward.

The intruder raised his gun and cocked it.

“Stiles goes free,” the young man growled.

Chris seemed humoured, chuckling lowly.

“You have one shot, kid,” he reminded the intruder. “And we can’t die.”

The young man took a step back and climbed onto the railing. He wound his arm around the rope rigging and pressed the gun to his own jaw instead. “You can’t, but I can.”

“No!” Stiles cried out.

The pirates grabbed the younger boy and hurled him back into their arms.

“I said: Stiles goes free,” the intruder repeated.

“Why should I care if you die?” Chris asked, the young man’s actions perking his interest slightly.

“My name is Derek Hale,” Derek answered. “I am the son of Cannonball Robert Hale. His blood runs through my veins.”

Chris held up his hand and motioned for his men to fall still.

“You need my blood,” Derek bargained. “I’m willing to come to a fair agreement. If not, I will pull this trigger and be lost to Davy Jones’ locker.”

“I think he’s telling the truth,” Kate interrupted, cupping her nose in pain. “He looks the splitting image of the bastard. Even talks the same.”

Chris drew in a steady breath and grinned. “Name your terms.”

“Stiles goes free,” Derek replied.

Chris looked bored as he rolled his eyes. “Yes, we got that part. Anything else?”

“Peter too. And the crew aren’t to be harmed,” Derek bargained. “Do we have an agreement?”

“Stiles and Peter go free and the crew are to be unharmed,” Chris reiterated.

“Derek, don’t -” Stiles cried, but one of the crew members clamped their hand over the boy’s mouth and silenced him.

“Do we have an accord?” Chris pushed.

Derek nodded and stepped down from the railing.

The crew swarmed him. They tossed the gun aside and tied Derek’s hands behind his back.

Chris turned to his sister and whispered, “You know the coordinates.”


	14. XIV

The _Lunar Eclipse_ dropped anchor before a small island.

Chris made his way down from where he stood proudly at the wheel.

“Gents, ready the plank,” he instructed. “Stilinski walks first.”

Derek fought his way forward.

“You gave me your word!” Derek growled.

“I did, and I’m keeping it,” Chris replied coldly. “Your bargain was that Peter and Stiles were to be set free, but you did not specify when or where.”

Chris nodded to a crewmate and they grabbed a piece of cloth. They wrestled the gag into Derek’s mouth and tied it around his head.

Another pirate dragged Stiles forward and pushed the boy up onto the plank.

“One moment,” Chris said softly. “It would be a waste to lose something so fine… so I’ll be having that suit back.”

Stiles glared at the man as he stripped off the jacket.

“The shirt too,” Chris reminded him.

Stiles ignored the whistles and cheers of the crowd as he stripped off his shirt, standing before them the way he had only a few days ago: dressed only in his pants.

Stiles shuffled back towards Chris and tossed the clothes back into his arms.

“You’re a filthy pig,” Stiles hissed. “It goes with your black heart.”

Chris smirked and tossed the clothes back to his crew, keeping his eyes level as he announced playfully, “They’re still warm.”

Stiles turned swiftly and marched down the plank.

He could hear Peter’s crew and Derek call for him.

He drew in a deep breath and leapt into the water.

“Peter,” Chris called. “You’re next.”

The man marched forward, hands bound.

Chris stopped him, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder as he pointed to the island and whispered, “If you haven’t noticed, Peter, that’s the same little island we made you governor of on our last trip.”

“I had noticed,” Peter muttered, agitated by Chris’ smugness.

Peter took a step forward but halted and turned around.

“Last time you did this, you left me with a pistol and one shot,” Peter reminded him.

“You’re right,” Chris agreed. He fell silent for a moment before calling to one of his crew. “Erica, fetch Peter’s belongings, if you would.”

The young woman stepped forward with Peter’s belt, including his sword, pistol and compass. Chris took it from her but did not give it to Peter.

“A gentleman might give us two pistols, seeing as there is now two of us,” Peter bargained.

Chris shook his head.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you one pistol and I’ll let you be the gentleman and shoot the lad first then starve to death yourself.”

Peter met his glare.

Chris tossed Peter’s belongings over the edge of the ship, smiling at the satisfying plop as it hit the water and sank down onto the reef.

Peter stepped up onto the plank and walked to the end.

“How _did_ you get off that island last time?” Chris asked.

Peter turned to face the man and smirked. “I’ll see you go to the grave without ever knowing.”

Before Chris could reply, Peter arched his back and dove into the water. He swam down to the reef and slid his hands along the blade of his cutlass. He sliced open his restraints and grabbed a hold of his belongings. He brought his knees up and pushed his boots against the rocky reef, swimming up to the surface.

He swam towards the island and trudged up onto the sandy beach. He turned back and watched on, heartbroken, as the _Lunar Eclipse_ began to move, gliding across the smooth waters.

“That’s the second time I’ve watched that man sail away with my ship,” he muttered.

Peter slumped down in the sand.

Stiles scoffed and began to walk along the beach. His bare feet sank into the wet sand, dragging at his footsteps.

A few minutes later he noticed a set of footprints in the sand and Peter sitting in the same exact spot.

“It’s not that big, is it?” Peter acknowledged. “You can’t ignore me forever.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and turned to look at the man.

Peter was fiddling with his dismantled pistol, checking that the pieces weren’t rusted and the powder was set out to dry on the sash he usually wore around his waist.

“Is it any different from when you were here last?” Stiles asked.

“The trees are taller,” Peter muttered, his attention still focused on his gun as he began to reassemble it.

“I hope you’re not intending to use that,” Stiles growled.

Peter reloaded the gunpowder and wrapped the sash around his waist. He shoved the gun into his belt and began to walk towards the centre of the island.

“Hale!” Stiles shouted.

“No, I don’t intend to use it,” Peter replied nonchalantly. “But ask me again in a few weeks and you might get a different answer.”

“A few weeks!” Stiles cried. “We have to get off of this island _now_.”

“Don’t you think I’m already working on that?” Peter asked as he glanced up to look for the tallest tree. Having found it, he checked the bark for the engraved number: 6.

Peter rounded the trunk and took six exaggerated steps. He paused and bounced up and down, testing whether the ground wavered beneath him. He took a step back and brushed aside the sand. He grabbed a hold of a large iron loop and pulled it up. The wooden trap door groaned as Peter hurled it open.

Stiles watched, curious, as Peter crept down into the cellar and returned with two bottles of rum in each hand.

“How is that going to help up get off the island?” Stiles asked, clearly agitated.

“It won’t,” Peter admitted. “And unless you have a boat, oars, sails and cargo stored away in your pants…” Peter glanced down, looking impressed but knowing the answer to his previous listing. “… we aren’t getting off of this island.”

“But you did before,” Stiles reminded him. “You are the infamous Peter Hale. You raided the string of islands in the Eastern waters and fought off three battalions without firing a single shot, you sailed a ship that would require a crew of twelve across the ocean on your own, and you survived being marooned on this island once before. Are you the pirate I’ve heard about or not?”

“Stories are told by the victor and legends are highly exaggerated,” Peter replied.

“Then how did you escape?” Stiles snapped.

“Last time, I was here for a grand total of three days. Last time, rumrunners used to use this island as a cache and when they came to restock I bartered a passage back to land,” Peter confessed. He glanced down at the dust-covered glasses. “And it looks as if they’ve been out of business for a while. We probably have your friend Tate to thank for that. But, on the up side, the trees offer food and shade and we have a magnificent store of rum.”

 “So that’s it? That’s the secret behind the grand legend of the infamous Captain Peter Hale?” Stiles asked. “You sat on a beach for three days, drinking rum, until someone came to pick you up.”

Peter shoved a bottle against Stiles’ chest.

The boy grunted and grabbed it.

Peter leant in close and hissed, “Welcome to reality, kid.”

The man turned and strutted back towards the beach.

“If you really want to get out of here, it’ll take about a month. Keep an eye on the horizon for the sails of the passing ships,” Peter instructed.

“Derek doesn’t have a month!” Stiles howled.

Peter sat down in the sand and pulled the cork from one of his bottles. He raised it high in the air and said, “Then here’s to Derek.”

Peter lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig.

Stiles kicked him in the back, knocking the man over and spilling Peter’s rum across the sand.

Peter coughed and sputtered. He stumbled to his feet and turned to Stiles, livid with rage as he bellowed, “Don’t you go thinking I’m happy with this, Stiles! But I see no use in wailing and picking useless fights when there’s nothing I can do to help Derek!”

“Oh, yes, so drinking away your problems is so much better,” Stiles snarked.

“Try it,” Peter replied, pushing Stiles’ bottle towards the young man’s lips. “The first swig goes down rough, but it goes down. The second swig is easier. The third, even easier.”

Peter leant in closer, a seductive smirk playing on his lips as he helped Stiles press the opening of the bottle to the young man’s plump pink lips. His pale blue eyes sparkled playfully as he whispered, “Try it.”

Stiles parted his lips and tipped the bottle up. He gulped back the amber liquid, feeling it burn his throat as it went down.

Peter brought his bottle to Stiles’ and tapped them together with a quiet clink as they raised them in cheers. Peter downed his bottle.

Stiles glanced down at his own bottle.

Peter grinned as he heard the young man mutter, “Drink up me hearties, yo ho.”

 

The crackling fire lit up the beach as the two danced, unceremoniously, around the crackling wood, singing at the top of their lungs,

_We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

_We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me._

_We extort, we pilfer, we filch, and sack,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

_Maraud and embezzle, and even high-jack,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!_

 

Stiles stumble slightly as the sand slipped beneath his feet. He steadied himself, took another drink and continued to dance.

 

_We kindle and char, inflame and ignite,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

_We burn up the city, we’re really a fright,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

_We’re rascals, scoundrels, villains, and knaves,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

_We’re devils and black sheep, really bad eggs,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

 

Stiles rounded the fire and looked his arm in Peter’s, they pranced about in circles, screaming the songs to the stars above,

 

_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!_

 

“I love this song!” Peter shouted.

They hoisted their bottles into the air and took long, drawn-out gulps of liquor.

“We’re _really_ bad eggs,” Peter laughed. His legs crumbled beneath him and he fell to the ground, dragging Stiles down with him. “And when I get the _Lunar Eclipse_ back, I’m going to teach this song to the whole crew and we’ll sing it all the time.”

“And you will be positively the most fearsome pirate to sail these waters,” Stiles slurred.

“Not just these waters,” Peter said lowly. “The whole world. Wherever we want to go, we’ll go. That’s what a ship is: it’s not just a keel and a hull and a deck and some sails, no; that’s what a ship needs. What is ship is - - what the _Lunar Eclipse_ really is - - is freedom.”

Stiles rested his head against Peter’s shoulder.

“Peter,” Stiles muttered. “It must have been terrible for you to be trapped on this island, all over again.”

“Ah, well,” Peter started. His voice drifted off as he coiled his arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “The company is much better than last time, and the view…” His eyes dropped down and looked at Stiles’ half-naked body hungrily. “… The view is so much better.”

Stiles stiffened and leant away. He shrugged off Peter’s hand as he looked at the man, offended. “Mr Hale,” Stiles squawked. “I’m not sure I’ve had enough rum to allow such talk, yet alone such… abhorrent suggestions.”

“But it would be perfectly okay if it were my nephew,” Peter countered, raising his brow questioningly.

Stiles looked at him and raised his bottle before Peter had the chance to say anything else.

“A toast,” Stiles said loudly. “To freedom.”

Peter tapped his bottle against Stiles’ and replied, “To the _Lunar Eclipse_.”


	15. XV

Peter laid on the beach, his unconscious body bathed in the bright glow of the sunlight. The pale grains of the sand scratched at the rough skin of his face as he rolled onto his side and used his arm to shield his face from the light.

He growled at the intruding brightness and the loud crackling.

His nose twitched slightly as the bitter smell of smoke burnt at his nostrils. He sniffed at it.

His eyes flew open with shock.

He sat up with a grunt and turned to look at the tree line.

A thick plume of smoke rose from among the trees where a blazing fire roared and consumed all that was nearby.

Peter leapt to his feet, his eyes scanning the area for Stiles.

He spotted the young man near the fire, hurling kegs of rum onto the bonfire.

Stiles ducked and waited for the liquor to ignite and explode with a deafening bang.

“What are you doing?” Peter howled. “You’ve burnt all the food, the shade… the rum!”

“Yes,” Stiles replied triumphantly. “The rum is gone.”

Peter sprinted over to his side and grabbed the young man by his slender shoulders. Rage brewed in his eyes and his breath hissed between gritted teeth as he growled, “Why?”

“One, because it is a vile drink that turns even the most respectable of men into scoundrels. Two, that smoke is over a hundred feet high, which means it can be seen from nearly two hundred leagues in any direction. The entire royal navy is out at sea looking for me, do you think there is even a chance they could miss it?”

“Are you delusional?” Peter shouted. “You honestly think the royal navy is out looking for you? Why do you think Derek was with me? You think he busted me out of jail to go on a lovely sailing trip? No! He busted me out because no-one else was going to save you.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

Peter relinquished his hold on the boy and gestured towards the fire. “And you have just burnt all of our food, our shelter, and the rum. All for a pathetic gamble that maybe, _maybe_ , someone will see it.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and stormed towards the beach. “Just you wait. In an hour, maybe two, you’ll see white sails on that horizon.’’

Peter pulled the gun from his belt and cocked it. He aimed the barrel at the back of Stiles’ head.

He paused for a moment before he uncocked it and screamed at the sky in frustration.

He turned and stormed off across the island, away from the radiating heat of the blaze. He trudged up a nearby sand dune, muttering a mocking repetition of Stiles’ words. As he reached to top of the dune, he froze. His eyes were fixed on the bright white sails of the ship that was anchored offshore. The glittering turquoise waters were pierced by the small longboat as three men rowed ashore.

Peter drew in a heavy breath and let out a disheartened sigh.

“There’ll be no living with him after this.”

 

Tate offered Stiles his hand as he helped the young man climb up onto the deck of the H.M.S _Dauntless_.

“Master Stilinski,” Commodore Tate greeted. “I’m relieved you’re safe.”

Stiles nodded curtly.

Commodore Tate looked over the young man’s shoulder at Peter and ordered, “Clap him in irons, behind his back this time.”

Peter smirked mischievously as he offered his hands up for the shackles.

“Commodore, you can’t do that,” Stiles protested.

“You’re speaking up for him?” Tate asked, shocked. “Even after what he did last time?”

“He can locate the Isla de Muerta,” Stiles explained. “I doubt he’ll be willing to help from the brig.”

“He’s not wrong,” Peter muttered.

“With all due respect, Master Stilinski, this ship is bound for Beacon Hills, not the Isla de Muerta,” Tate announced.

“But those pirates still have Derek-”

“Your father is in my quarters, sick with worry. Our mission was to rescue you and return home.”

“And you wouldn’t have even come after me if it weren’t for Derek,” Stiles argued.

“Mr Hale’s fate is regrettable, but so was his decision to engage in piracy,” Tate said coldly.

“He chose piracy to save me when you wouldn’t!”

Commodore Tate turned on the boy, astounded by his bluntness and anger.

Stiles drew in a shaky breath and quietened himself.

“Commodore, please!” Stiles begged.

“Tate, think about it. The _Lunar Eclipse_ , its captain and its crew, the last pirate threat in your waters.” Peter proposed. “How could you pass that up?”

“By remembering that I serve others, not myself.”

“Then consider it a wedding gift,” Stiles bargained.

“A wedding gift?” Governor Stilinski repeated, stepping out of the Captain’s quarters after hearing his son’s voice. “Am I to understand that you have made your decision about the proposal?”

Stiles nodded.

“I will formally offer my hand in marriage to your daughter upon out arrival in Beacon Hills,” Stiles offered.

“So, you will propose to my daughter if I rescue Mr Hale?” Tate reiterated.

Stiles nodded.

“Release Hale from his shackles and ready the ship. Haul anchor and come about,” Tate instructed. He turned to face his navigator. “He’ll give you our heading.”

The Lieutenant that held Peter’s arm in a vice grip began to unfasten his manacles and nodded, directing Peter towards the bridge.

Stiles bowed his head as Peter passed.

The pirate paused and turned to face the young man.

“Congratulations, Master Stilinski,” he whispered before continuing up the stairs.

They waited for Peter to finish his ascent up the stairs before Tate turned to Stiles. “You can confine yourself in my cabin. There should be a change of clothes for you to change into.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles walked forward towards the cabin and his father followed.

“Stiles,” the man said calmly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles replied sharply.

He stripped out of the pair of pants he had been wearing for the past few days and made his way over to the small washbasin. He wrung out the sponge and began to clean himself down, clearing away the dirt, ash, blood and sand that coated his skin. He watched the water turn brown as his pale limbs were red with scrubbing.

Finally feeling clean, he stepped over to the small table that sat nearby. He collected the clothes that Tate had set out for him – a plain white shirt, a pair of pressed trousers, a pair of boots and a navy jacket that had been loaned from one of the men – and dressed.

He caught a glance of himself in the reflection of a nearby mirror, noticing how pale and malnourished he look. His eyes were darkened by sleepless circles and the scarlet jacket made his eyes look bloodshot and his cheeks blotchy.

He bowed his head, understanding now why his father was so concerned.

He turned and walked over to his father’s side.

Stiles wrapped his arms around the man and hid his face in the curve of his neck the way he had when he was younger, back when he was dealing with the loss of his mother and the constant unrelenting nightmares.

“I’m okay, Dad,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”

“Stiles,” his father started slowly. “You’ve suffered through a lot, more than people should. The loss of your mother, the constant pressure of our status, the fact that you’ve never had solid ground beneath your feet long enough to call it home, and now all of this… It’s too much.”

Stiles leant back to look his father in the eye.

“I’m okay, Dad. I promise.”

“I want you to know, you still have me. You will always have me,” John promised.

Stiles smiled sweetly and nodded.

“I need to have a word with the Lieutenant,” his father said, turning to make his way towards the door.

He paused for a moment and returned to his son’s side, pulling the boy into his arms.

“I love you, Stiles.”

“I love you too, Dad,” Stiles rasped.

He walked his father to the door and held it open for him.

A moment passed before there was a quiet knock at the door.

Stiles walked back across the small cabin and opened it.

“Commodore, what a pleasant surprise,” Stiles teased.

The Commodore gave him an amused smirk.

Stiles gestured for Tate to enter before he walked back into the centre of the office.

Commodore Tate followed. He shut the door behind them and turned to face Stiles.

Stiles had taken a few steps forward when Tate’s voice stopped him.

“I would like to withdraw the offer.”

Stiles turned and looked at him, shocked and confused. “What?”

“I would like to withdraw the offer for you to marry my daughter,” Tate repeated.

“But you-”

“We are still going after Mr Hale,” Tate assured him. “But I don’t want you making such a commitment because it was the only way you could save someone you care about.”

Stiles bowed his head, feeling a little guilty and ashamed.

“Derek Hale is a good man,” Tate said proudly. “He’s brave and resourceful. Perhaps on our return, we could pardon him for his rash actions.”

“You would pardon him of piracy?” Stiles asked.

“Sometimes people make the wrong choices for the right reasons,” Tate muttered from the doorway. “He did for you, and you for him.”

Stiles met Tate’s gaze.

“I know where your heart truly lies: it is not with my daughter, nor hers with you.”


	16. XVI

Boyd and Erica made their way downstairs into the brig.

They paused for a moment, noticing that one of the cells – the one that had held Derek – was empty.

Erica took a step forward and looked into the cell. She glanced upwards to see Derek hanging from the rafters, trying to shove the wooden planks of the ceilings with his legs.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she warned. “The gun deck is above you. If you kick in the ceiling, chances are a cannon will roll back and crush you.”

Derek paused in his efforts and lowered himself back to the ground. He dropped lightly to his feet and glared at the two who approached his cell.

“Don’t give me that look,” Erica chastised.

“What happened to Robert Hale?” Derek asked bluntly.

“Robert was a good man,” Erica replied. “We only knew him a short time; Argent picked us up shortly after he marooned Peter. He threw it in with us for the sake of survival, but abandoning Peter on that island never sat well with him. Then Argent led us to Cortés’ treasure and he tried to fight the Captain and his decision to take the gold. He said we deserved to be cursed. He didn’t take any treasure, but he grabbed a coin off one of us and sent it away to you. He hoped it would never be recovered and that we would be cursed forever.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Lydia told her, slouching back against the bars of her cell.

Erica ignored her and continued, “Maybe we do deserve it. But Robert’s actions didn’t sit well with the Captain, so Argent tied a cannonball to Cannonball’s boots and a rope around his waist… He keelhauled him: dragged him along the coral reefs and the rocky ocean floor until the barnacles on our ship finally cut him free. He sank to the bottom of the ocean and was lost to Davy Jones’ locker.”

Allison looked away, turning her attention to the world beyond the small hole that had been blasted through the ship during their fight.

“It was only after that we found out we needed his blood and that coin to break the curse,” Erica finished. “A lot of us wanted to speak up, but the thought of being keelhauled with him kept us silent.”

“Listen,” Isaac whispered. “If you’re as good as you say you are, then help us.”

“We can’t do that,” Boyd muttered.

“Fine, then let us help you,” Isaac bargained. “When everything goes to hell, sneak away and come find us. We can put in a good word with our Captain and we can get you away from this hell.”

“Your Captain?” Erica repeated. “You honestly think Peter is coming back?”

“He did it once before, he can do it again,” Derek reminded her.

Erica was about to reply when heavy footsteps thumped against the ladder.

Argent made his way down into the brig, silencing everyone in the confined space.

He looked at Derek for a moment before turning to Boyd and Erica.

“Bring him.”

 

Peter leant against the railing at the back of the ship, looking out across the open ocean.

Stiles slowly made his way across the deck and leant down on the railing.

“You didn’t tell Commodore Tate everything,” Stiles muttered.

“Nor did you,” Peter pointed out.

He turned to look at the young man but Stiles bowed his head to avoid Peter’s accusing glare.

“It would have delayed our departure and they would have been hesitant to rescue Derek,” Stiles explained.

“And then we would have been too late,” Peter finished.

Stiles drew in a deep breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the crew and whispered, “These men are about to go up against an enemy that cannot be killed.”

“I have a plan. If it succeeds, then the battle that is about to happen will be brief and one-sided.”

“To whose benefit?” Stiles asked.

Peter smirked. “Mine, of course. And to those I align myself with.”

“Derek,” Stiles confirmed.

Peter nodded.

“You know,” the man started slowly, turning his gaze back to the horizon wistfully. “I’d be more than happy to have you on my crew.”

The man turned to face Stiles, picking up his hand. He turned Stiles’ arm and exposed the boy’s bare wrists, pressing a tender kiss to the chafed skin as he purred, “You need only say the word.”

Stiles paused for a moment – stunned – before he snatched back his hand and defiantly answered, “No.”

Peter shrugged. “If ever you change your mind, you just have to find me.”

“So, what’s this magnificent plan of yours?” Stiles asked.

Before Peter could answer, Commodore Tate made his way up the stairs and onto the bridge. “Master Stilinski, would you please return to my office; I will not compromise your safety.”

“I’ve survived on my own this long,” Stiles argued.

Tate exhaled heavily.

“Lieutenant, please escort Stiles to my quarters and make sure he stays there,” Commodore Tate instructed.

Stiles rolled his eyes and held his head high as he stormed past the men and down the stairs.

Tate heard the door to his quarters slam shut.

Peter smiled, amused by the sight. He looked to Commodore Tate and said, “He is actually quite competent in defending himself.”

“Regardless, I don’t like this situation,” Tate announced. “That island is riddled with caves that will put my men at a disadvantage. I will not walk them into battle blindly.”

“That’s just what I was thinking. How about… you let me go in alone and while you’re readying the cannons for a full on assault, I’ll have a little heat-to-heart with Argent and his men and convince them to get into their little row boats and come out into the open?” Peter proposed.

“Why should I believe that you won’t double cross us?” Tate queried.

Peter looked pained by the returning memories of his time spent marooned on the archipelago. He snarled at the memory that was burnt into his mind: Chris Argent’s smug smirk as he made Peter walk the plank and then sailed away with his ship.

“They left me stranded on an island,” Peter answered. He paused before adding, “…Twice.”

Tate thought about it for a moment, his pale eyes glaring at Peter with suspicion.

“What have you got to lose?” Peter asked.

Commodore Tate’s glare rolled over Peter before he lifted his stern gaze back to the man’s eyes and answered, “Nothing I wouldn’t be pleased to be rid of.”

Peter grinned. “I knew you’d listen to reason.”


	17. XVII

Derek dragged his feet across the rocky floor of the damp cavern. Droplets of water fell from the walls of the arching tunnels that enclosed the space.

Boyd and Erica stood guard over him, ushering him in the right direction.

Derek was silent, his glare fixed on the back of Argent’s head.

“There’s no reason to fret,” Erica assured him. “It’ll just be a prick of the finger, a few drops of blood and then it’s all over.”

“We’re not chancing it this time,” the first mate growled.

Kate slammed her boot into Derek’s back, knocking him to the ground. She grabbed the back of his jacket and hurled him forward.

“This twerp is only half Hale,” she hissed. “We’re spilling it all.”

Erica and Boyd’s steps fell short as they watched Kate drag Derek forward.

Derek thrashed in her hold until finally she let him go.

“I can’t wait until this is over,” Derek whispered. “Then you’ll be mortal and I’ll take immense pleasure in putting a bullet through your thick skull.”

Kate backhanded him.

Derek fell to the ground. Warm streams of blood trickled down his face from where Kate’s rings and the jagged rocks had torn his skin.

“Or maybe, I can provoke you enough that you keelhaul me and lose your last chance at breaking this curse,” Derek teased.

Kate drew her pistol, cocked it and aimed it at Derek.

He didn’t flinch.

“Kate,” Chris said warningly.

“Go ahead,” Derek dared. “You deserve to be cursed and I hope you stay that way forever.”

Kate let out a low growl, her finger slowly applying pressure to the trigger.

“Katherine,” Chris howled.

She sighed and uncocked her weapon. She turned to apologise when Derek leapt to his feet.

He grabbed the back of her jacket and spun her about, slamming her into the wall of the cave.

Before anyone had a chance to react, he picked up his heels and ran away.

He leapt over the clusters of rocks and debris and sprinted through the tunnels.

Chris’ cry echoed through the rocky caverns, “Find him!”

Derek rounded the sharp corners, his body bouncing off of the rocky walls as his legs got tangled upon themselves. His boots slipped on the damp rocks and sank into the wet sand.

He glanced over his shoulder to check if anyone was following him.

He thumped into a solid figure and fell backwards.

He quickly recovered and readied himself to fight.

Peter looked down at the young man’s bound hands and then back up at his nephew’s face.

“Seriously?”

Derek let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” Peter asked, keeping his voice low so that it didn’t echo through the caves.

Derek shook his head.

“Okay, follow me,” Peter instructed.

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek whispered.

“Safe,” Peter replied.

Peter led his nephew through the narrow passages and through the tunnelling caverns.

Derek paused and listened past the ambient noise of whistling winds and dripping rocks for the sound of the crashing waves. They were quieter, more distant.

“Are you sure we’re going to right way?” Derek asked.

“It’s the right way,” Peter replied, stepping into a large cavern.

Derek followed, his eyes drawn to the large piles of treasure: coins, jewels, trinkets and a large stone chest atop of the centre pile.

Derek turned his wide eyes to Peter.

“You son of a-”

“Thank you, Peter,” Chris said, his voice making Derek jump as the man appeared behind him.

Two members of his crew grabbed Derek and dragged him towards the centre of the room.

“You couldn’t have led him back here more directly if you had known where you were going,” Chris teased.

“You did know!” Derek growled. “You led me here on purpose.”

Peter grinned, confirming it.

“Why?” Derek and Chris asked simultaneously.

Peter didn’t reply. He turned his head away as the pirates dragged Derek towards the chest.

The young man thrashed about and screamed.

They forced Derek down on his knees, pulling at his hair to expose his neck.

Chris climbed the mountain of gold and collected the jagged stone knife. He pressed the blade to Derek’s throat.

“You don’t want to be doing that,” Peter warned.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” Chris argued.

Peter shrugged. “Alright them. It’s your funeral.”

Chris hesitated. He pulled the knife away from Derek’s throat and turned to look at Peter. “Why don’t I want to be doing this?”

“Because…” Peter took a step forward.

Kate grabbed his shoulder, halting him.

Peter glared at her, disgusted. He brushed her hand off and continued, “Because, right now, the H.M.S _Dauntless_ is lying in wait in the harbour with its crew armed and guns at the ready to cut your men down the moment you step out of these caves.”

Peter shrugged.

“You have no chance of surviving that onslaught if you’re mortal,” Peter pointed out.

“What are you suggesting?” Chris asked.

“Firstly, tell your dog – here – to keep her paws off of me.”

Kate growled, her eyes burning with rage.

“Kate,” Chris said warningly.

The woman stepped forward to Peter’s side and hissed, “As soon as this is over, I’m tearing out your throat.”

Peter smiled at her and watched as she turned and stormed towards a large throne that sat among the piles of treasure. She slumped down on the vermillion velvet seat and kept her keen glare focused on Peter.

Peter nodded and began to climb the large mountain of treasure to Chris’ side. He ran his fingers through the tinkling gold coins that filled the chest.

“Now that I can speak without a hot breath on my neck, I’d suggest not killing the boy… yet,” Peter said. “You just have to wait for the opportune moment.”

Peter glanced down.

Derek’s face warped into an expression of understanding.

The man scooped up a handful of the gold coins and continued, “Sail out there, immortal, and take care of Tate and his men. And then, after you’ve killed every…” He dropped a coin back into the chest. “Last…” Another coin dropped into the pile. “One…” A third coin fell into the chest and Derek watched as Peter palmed the final coin. “…of Tate’s men, _then_ lift the curse and celebrate your victory.”

“Why are you being so… helpful, Peter?” Chris asked. “Last time you were his open and honest, it didn’t end well for you.”

“The situation has changed,” Peter whispered.

“How so?”

“Well, after you’re done with Tate and his crew, you can take the H.M.S _Dauntless_ : a second ship and your first step towards a fleet,” Peter explained. “But that would leave you with a problem: who would Captain the _Lunar Eclipse_?”

“You?” Chris predicted.

“Well, hopefully. I mean, you do deserve the bigger ship,” Peter bargained. “I’ll sail her for you, as part of your fleet, and I’ll give you fifteen percent of my plunder. _And_ you get to introduce yourself as _Commodore_ Argent.”

Chris seemed to think about it for a moment. It was tempting.

“I’ll even buy you a big hat,” Peter offered.

Chris nodded. “We have an accord.”

Peter beamed proudly. “Great! Now, you can take care of the _Dauntless_ , can’t you?”

“Men!” Chris shouted, his booming voice getting the attention of every member of his crew. “Are you up for it?”

The crew howled and cheered.

“Alright then,” Chris said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Take a walk.”

The crew chuckled and stalked towards the water.

The waves clawed at their ankles and climbed up to their hips, then their shoulders, and then over their heads.

They marched on without hesitation.

Clouds of sand were stirred up from the ocean floor. Schools of fish quickly dissipated and swam away in fear as the figures stalked through the dark depths.

The darkness was broken as streams of moonlight filtered through the water, rippling and bathing them in its silvery glow.

Their feet thumped against the sea bed like the steady pounding of a heartbeat as they emerged from the shadows. Their flesh was stripped from their bones and clothes were torn to rags. The strips of fabric drifted gracefully about in the water, weightless. Their swords glinted as the moonlight caught the shiny metal.

Their fleshless skulls seemed to be fixed in maniacal grins as they stalked forward.

Drifting pieces of seaweed passed through the vacant spaces between their ribs and the occasional curious fish would filter through the gaps and swim about the empty caverns of their chests.

They passed under the thick hull of the large ship, the H.M.S _Dauntless_.

Kate, leading the pack, nodded towards the heavy iron anchor that pierced the seabed.

The men nodded and began to climb up the heavy chains.

Now, the nightmare began.


	18. XVIII

The world seemed silent.

Argent’s crew crept aboard the H.M.S _Dauntless_ without making a sound.

Kate unsheathed her dagger and crept forward. She clamped her hand over the mouth of one of the guards and slit his throat before he could make a sound.

He gargled slightly as his blood spilt across her bony hand and he fell weak in her arms.

Kate slowly lowered him down onto the deck.

She moved stealthily across the damp, lantern-lit deck.

The rest of the crew skilfully executed the patrolling guards.

Kate guided her men across the deck and cleared it, leaving men gargling and bleeding out. She looked down at the bodies, satisfied by the slaughter. She sheathed her dagger and made her way towards the Captain’s cabin.

She paused, jolting at the sound of a ringing bell.

She turned about, livid with rage. Her eyes fell on one of the guards, a sword impaling his torso as he weakly reached up to ring the emergency bell.

She drew her pistol and fired it.

The crack of the gunshot echoed through the air.

The man fell to the deck and the echoing toll of the bell died away.

“Be ready,” Kate warned. “They’ll be alerted and returning to the ship... This is about to get interesting.”

 

Tate and his men turned about the longboats and hurried back to the ship. They hoisted themselves back on board and leapt into action. Their boots thundered across the deck as they fought back against the intruders.

Commodore Tate leapt from the longboat and lunged forward. He unsheathed his sword and tore through a few men, slicing their knees and impaling them.

He dodged the lunging men, making his way through the chaos.

Steel crashed against steel, guns fired and men let out battle cries.

The metals of their sword rang.

Gunfire and cannons thundered and split the air.

The night was filled with dying screams and silenced gurgles as the pirates drove their cutlasses through the sailors or fired lead into their bodies. Their lifeless corpses hit the deck as the crisp salty air was filled with the bitter scent of blood and gunpowder.

Tate ran his sword through Kate’s chest.

She flinched for a moment. She stumbled back out of the shadows.

Her flesh melted off of her bones and exposed the brittle, soot-covered skeleton that looked to be centuries old. Her clothed were nothing more than rags and his sword was wedged between her weather-beaten ribs.

Tate’s eyes dropped to her chest.

“Mary, mother of God,” he gasped. “What the…?”

Her jaw shifted slightly into what seemed to be a grin.

She wound her bony fingers around the handle of the cutlass and drew it out of her chest.

The Lieutenant leapt in front of Commodore Tate, blocking Kate’s blow. He knocked the sword from her hand and tossed it back to his commander.

“Sir, get to the Governor,” the Lieutenant ordered.

Tate nodded, turned on his heels and ran towards the Captain’s cabin. He hurled open the doors to the cabin and bounded inside. He pushed the nearby chair across and barricaded the door.

“Governor?” Tate called.

“I’m fine, Henry,” John assured him, stepping out from the sheltered corner. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s Stiles?” Commodore Tate asked, searching the cabin.

“He went out onto the deck to get some fresh air,” Governor Stilinski explained before repeating, “What’s going on?”

“We’re under attack. Stay here, barricade the door with a cabinet and whatever other heavy furniture you can move,” Tate instructed. “Do not come out until I say it’s clear.”

“Where’s Stiles?” John asked, panicked.

“I don’t know,” Commodore Tate confessed, pulling the chair aside and readying himself to run back out into the onslaught. “But, I promise you, I will find him.”

 

Stiles quickly rowed the small boat across the rippling waters towards the _Lunar Eclipse_ that was anchored in the cove on the far side of the island.

He pulled up beside the ship and reached up for the ropes that ran down the side of the hull.

He tightened his grip on the rope, hissing in pain as the rough fibres scratched at his wounds and his grip tested his strength. He drew in a deep breath and hoisted himself up the ropes. He climbed up towards the deck and halted for a moment, checking that the coast was clear before climbing over the railing and scurrying towards the ladder that lead below deck.

He moved cautiously and quietly, remaining unnoticed as he snuck down through the decks and disappeared into the dark shadows of the ship.

He made his way down into the brig, smirking as his eyes fell upon the people who were huddled in the crowded cell.

Lydia met his gaze and smiled sweetly. “Hello, darling.”

“Think you can get us out of here?” Isaac asked.

Stiles looked around. He picked up a small bench. He double-checked it and wedged the stand between the bars.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Allison asked.

“Yeah, I watched Derek make and test the cell doors he that he installed in the military fort in Beacon Hills,” Stiles confessed.

He began to push down on the bench, listening to the wood groan. When he was sure that the wooden bench wouldn’t give way under pressure, he shoved the force of his weight down upon it.

The cell door lifted off of its hinges and fell to the floor with a loud crash.

Stiles took a step back and looked at the gathered crowd with a smug smile.

“It’s all just a matter of leverage.”


	19. XIX

Derek was back on his feet and standing by a pile of treasure. He glared at Peter as his uncle walked around the mountains of gold and jewels and admired the alluring trinkets and coins. He knew what Peter was thinking: he was trying to estimate how much treasure he could fit on the _Eclipse_ and still sail with cargo and supplies when this was all over.

“You’ve been planning this from the beginning,” Derek hissed at his uncle. “Ever since you learnt my name.”

Peter turned and looked at his nephew. He took a few steps forward and said, “You should have known better than to trust a pirate. You see, you can trust a dishonest man because you know they’re lying to you, but you can’t trust an honest man because you can never tell when he’s about to do something incredibly stupid.”

Without warning, Peter span about. He grabbed the hilt of the nearest pirates’ sword, planting his foot in the small of his back. He kicked the man into the pool of water and tossed Derek the sword.

Derek caught it and very swiftly cut his ropes.

He leapt to his uncle’s side and blocked the blow of the wet pirate who leapt out of the water and grabbed the nearest blade.

Chris let out a heavy sigh.

“Damn it, Peter. I was just beginning to like you.”

Peter drew his own sword and pointed it at Chris. He smirked and muttered, “Then you are as stupid as I thought you were.”

The few members of Argent’s crew who had stayed behind now began to circle them.

“Think you can handle them?” Peter asked.

“There’s four of them,” Derek whispered. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good, because I have some unfinished business with the Captain.”

 

Stiles, Scott, Lydia and the crew stormed the deck of the _Lunar Eclipse_ armed with swords and guns.

“Lydia, bring the ship about,” Stiles instructed. “I need you to help the navy defend the _Dauntless_.”

“And why should we do that?” Lydia asked.

“Because it might give you enough leverage over them that they give you a head start after the battle,” Stiles explained. “And, you said it yourself, there isn’t a ship in existence that can match the speed of the _Lunar Eclipse_.”

Lydia exhaled heavily. “Fine. Isaac and Allison, haul the an-”

She paused. She span around and raised her gun at the railing.

The two figures raised their hands in sacrifice.

“Please,” Erica rasped. “Please, don’t shoot.”

“What are you doing here?” Stiles growled.

“We want to help.”

“Load the cannons and wait for my orders,” Lydia instructed.

The two pirates nodded and scurried down stairs.

Stiles watched them with suspicion before scurrying over to the railing of the ship.

“Stiles, where are you going?” Lydia cried.

“Derek and Peter are still in those caves,” he replied. “I’m going to help.”

“Stiles, we have the _Eclipse_ and we have to stick to the code,” Scott explained. “Those who fall behind get left behind.”

“Then leave me behind,” Stiles retorted. “I don’t care. I’m going back for Derek.”

 

Metal crashed against metal as Peter and Derek thrust and parried against their opponents with skill, speed and precision. Sparks flew about as their steel swords rang.

Peter grabbed a nearby chain, coiled it around Chris’ wrist and pulled the blade free of his grip. He tossed it across the cavern and readied himself to lunge forward.

Chris moved to the side and pulled another sabre from the piles of loot.

Peter lunged forward again.

Chris blocked his attack their blades crossed as their faces drew closer, separated by an inch of space.

Peter could feel the man’s hot breath on his face as Chris growled, “You’re a fool, Peter. A mortal fool. You can’t beat me.”

Peter shoved him back and parried Argent’s attack. He ran his blade through the man’s chest.

Chris stumbled back slightly. He rolled his eyes and pulled the sword from his chest.

Peter looked disheartened. “Doesn’t anyone stay dead?”

“I was hoping you would,” Chris snarled.

He stepped forward and drove the sabre into Peter’s chest.

“Peter!” Derek cried out.

The man let out a weak breath as he looked down at the sword that jutted from his chest. He stumbled backwards.

The moonlight bled through the hole in the ceiling, bathing Peter in a brilliant glow. The flesh melted from his bones as he looked up at the silver stream of light. He glanced down at his hands, inspecting the flesh-stripped bones and testing their movement. He looked to Chris and seemed to smile as he said, “Well, isn’t that interesting?”

He flicked the gleaming Aztec coin into the air and caught it.

“Sorry,” Peter said without any hint of remorse. “I couldn’t resist.”

Peter took advantage of the man’s dropped defences. He pulled the sword from his chest and leapt forward, unleashing an unrelenting barrage of attacks.

Chris blocked most of them but dodged others. The metal of their blades flashed and sparked as they collided. He ducked under the man’s arms and span away.

Peter leapt over the rocks and bounded after his opponent. They ran in and out of the moonlight, their bodies shifting from something horrific back to how they normally looked then back to the nightmarish images, over and over again.

Peter rounded Chris and planted his boot in the small of the man’s back.

Chris fell to the ground, rolling onto his back and looking up at Peter.

“So, what now?” Argent panted. “Are we to be two immortals locked in an unending battle until Judgement Day?”

Peter shrugged. “Or you could surrender.”

Chris cried out in anger and lunged forward.

Across the cavern, Derek dodged to the side.

The pirate grabbed a silver tray and threw it at Derek’s ankles.

Derek collapsed to the ground with a painful grunt. He rolled over, freezing at the familiar sensation of a blade being pressed to his throat.

The pirate held him there, knowing he wasn’t allowed to kill the young man – that was a right reserved for the Captain.

There was a loud thud.

The pirate jerked and collapsed to the ground.

Derek grabbed his sword and swung at the approaching figure.

Stiles let out a surprised yelp and leapt back.

“Stiles?” Derek gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I came back for you,” Stiles replied.

Derek couldn’t help but smile.

Stiles’ smile dropped. He hurled the small statue he was holding at the man that charged at them. It struck his head and knocked him back. Stiles pulled a sabre from the nearby pile of loot and blocked the charging man’s attack. He pushed the man back and parried his blows, moving with grace and force as he landed blow after blow.

Stiles grabbed the man's wrist and ducked under his arm. He pulled the pirate’s arm behind his back and cringed at the painful sound of the shoulder popping out of the socket. He slammed his elbow into the pirate's back, releasing his hold on the man and letting him fall forward.

The man lost his footing and fell into the nearby pool of water.

Stiles turned to Derek.

The man was staring at Stiles, his eyes wide with shock.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I watch you train sometimes,” Stiles confessed before he could stop himself.

Derek opened his mouth to speak when a loud battle cry interrupted them.

Stiles turned and planted his boot into the man’s gut. He pushed the pirate back into the moonlight, exposing his skeleton.

Stiles reached forward and grabbed the grenade off of the pirate’s belt. He lit the fuse and wedged it between the man’s ribs before shoving him back into the shadows.

The man patted at the flesh that covered his chest.

Derek grabbed Stiles’ jacket and pulled him under the shelter of the nearest mountain of gold.

They flinched at the sound of the explosion.

“Stiles,” Derek called, looking at the boy who was huddled in his arms.

“I’m okay,” Stiles assured him. “Go… go.”

Stiles and Derek leapt to their feet. Stiles countered the blows of the last pirate while Peter continued his battle with Chris.

The men moved about the space with grace, their swords chiming and echoing within the confined space of the cave.

Peter lunged at Chris. Argent stepped aside, dodging the man and turning swiftly.

But he wasn’t quick enough: Peter planted his boot in the man’s gut and knocked him backwards.

He slid his hand along his sword and tossed the bloody coin he had snatched to Derek. He span back around and countered Chris’s attacks. He stepped aside, letting the man stumble past him. He turned and drew his pistol on Chris as Chris drew his and aimed it at Stiles. He cocked it and smirked as Stiles skidded to a halt.

A loud gunshot spit the air.

Chris stood his ground. His cold composure didn’t fracture for a second as he looked back at his foe.

Peter held onto the smoking pistol, his expression stern and unwavering.

“Ten years you carried that pistol and you wasted your only shot,” Chris said, almost disappointed.

“He didn’t waste it,” Derek shouted, his voice echoing eerily about the space.

Chris turned to look at him.

Derek stood over the chest, one hand held onto a blood-soaked stone knife and the other hovered over the chest. Ruby-red droplets fell from his clenched fist, chiming as each drop struck the gold. Derek unfurled his fist, letting bloody coins fall. The metal rang as it fell, thundering as they struck the others.

Chris looked down at his chest. Blood began to pool, seeping into the fabric of his shirt. His icy-blue eyes met Peter’s cold glare.

His lips quivered slightly as he whispered – almost as if he were relieved or numbed of pain –  “I feel… nothing.”

Chris collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.

Peter tossed aside the pistol and muttered, “Say hello to Robert… I hope he gives you hell.”


	20. XX

Tate blocked Kate’s oncoming blow and shoved her back.

She stumbled slightly and froze when she saw Tate’s confused expression.

Something felt different: her body felt heavier and more constrained than it was before.

She looked down at herself with astonishment. Her body was now flesh and blood as she stood in the silvery glow of the moonlight.

“What?” she whispered.

Tate drew his pistol and fired.

The bullet tore through her. She screamed in pain as blood gushed from her wound and the heated lead and gunpowder had burnt her flesh. Her cry died away, glistening tears streaking her cheeks as her legs weakened and she collapsed to the deck, cold, still and lifeless.

Everyone on the deck was silent, everyone looking between one another in shock

One by one, the surrounding pirates set down their weapons and surrendered.

“Men,” Tate called across the deck to his sailors. “Victory is ours.”

The men began to cheer and shout.

 

Derek tore a strip of soft cotton from his shirt. He wrapped the strip of fabric around his blood-soaked hand.

Stiles stumbled slightly as he climbed up the mountain of gold and ran to Derek’s side. He leapt into Derek’s arms.

Derek stumbled slightly but quickly regained his balance, wrapping his arms around Stiles and holding him close in the comforting warmth of his embrace. He leant back and cupped Stiles’ face in his hands, looking lovingly into his eyes. He gently brushed the ball of his thumb across Stiles’ cheek, almost as if to test he was real.

“Are you hurt?” Derek asked, worried.

“I’m fine,” Stiles replied. “How’s your hand?”

“It’ll heal,” Derek dismissed.

They were silent for a moment.

Stiles took Derek’s hand in his own and looked down at the thick makeshift bandage that was bundled around his hand. Swirls of brown and red seeped through the cotton dressing and the bitter copper scent of blood filled his nostrils.

Derek tried to dispel the impeding sense of awkwardness by turning his attention to his uncle.

The man was making a mess of the piles of treasure, picking up crowns, jewels and goblets.

“You are the worst pirate I’ve ever heard of,” Derek told him. “You’re an honest man who can be trusted and abandoned the code you lived by to come back and save me.”

Peter paused and turned to look at Derek. He made an overly exaggerated offended expression but it faltered and was replaced by a kind smile.

“Or maybe I’m a man who just couldn’t pass up getting revenge against the black-hearted, backstabbing bastard who stole my ship and left me to die on an island in the middle of nowhere – twice – and who knows how to use others to get what he wants,” Peter suggested. “In other words, a great pirate.”

Peter turned his gaze to Stiles.

“Lydia has the _Eclipse_ , doesn’t she?”

Stiles nodded.

“And they’ve set sail?” Peter asked.

Stiles nodded again and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Peter replied. “They’re following my orders and sticking to the code. I’ll go and wait by the longboat, you two have your moment.”

They watched as Peter made his way back through the caves. They were about to question how they would get out of the labyrinth of tunnels when they heard the quiet thud of Peter dropping coins and trinkets onto the wet sand, leaving a trail for them to follow out to the beach.

Stiles turned back and looked at Derek. He leant forward and brought their lips together in a tender kiss.

His arms instinctively slid up to Derek’s neck, his fingertips brushing against Derek’s jaw before trailing back to the nape of his neck. He laced his fingers through the soft tufts of Derek’s hair.

Derek seemed to weaken, the kiss growing more gentle and tender as he lifted his hand to Stiles’ cheek and cupped his soft skin. His shoulders dropped and his eyes fluttered shut. He lowered his hand to Stiles’ neck and threaded his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, pulling Derek in closer and losing himself in the older boy’s warmth.

Stiles felt his heartbeat rise into his throat. His lungs burnt, desperate for air. The hand at the base of Derek’s neck began to tremble.

Derek drew back, enough to let the boy to draw breath before bringing their lips together again.

Stiles felt his shoulders drop as he weakened in Derek’s hold. His eyes fluttered shut as he looped his arms around Derek’s neck, desperately clawing at the back of his shirt.

Derek dropped one hand to Stiles’ waist and pulled him close. He kept his other hand on the back of the younger man’s neck, brushing the ball of his thumb in soothing circles across the soft skin.

Stiles sighed and whimpered needily in return, weaving his fingers into Derek’s hair and balling the raven black locks into his fist. His other hand ran down the man’s shoulders, biceps and back. He wanted to feel every inch of Derek’s skin, to trace the seams of his muscles, to feel the curves that made him human, to feel the warmth of the blood in his veins and to melt into the comfort of his arms.

He fell weakly into Derek’s arms. His lungs ached so much he wanted to cry but he desperately didn’t want to let go.

Derek drew back slowly, leaving Stiles panting for breath.

The younger man licked his lips and looked up at Derek, grinning as he whispered, “Now, _that_ ’s a kiss.”


	21. XXI

Beacon Hills seemed quieter, more haunting and depressing, than it usually did as Stiles stood upon the high steps which overlooked the gallows. The drums at the execution thundered through Stiles’ chest as his body grew cold and numb.

He slowly clenched and unfurled his fist. He could still feel the large cut on his hand ache and burn with pain as he looked at the man who was dragged before the noose.

His stomach churned with guilt and he swallowed hard against the bile that rose into his throat.

He didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be anywhere but there.

The gathered crowd began to cheer and hurl things at the man who stood atop the wooden stand.

Peter didn’t flinch. He stood proud and met Stiles’ gaze.

He could tell the young man didn’t want this. He offered Stiles a kind smile, hoping to dismiss any feelings of guilt that were troubling him, but Stiles bowed his head and looked away.

“This is wrong,” Stiles whispered.

“Commodore Tate is bound by the law,” his father said quietly. “As are we all.”

The executioner began to read the order, “Peter Hale-”

“Captain,” Peter corrected. ” _Captain_ Peter Hale.”

The executioner ignored him and continued, “You have been found guilty of multiple acts of piracy and treason, for which your punishment shall be to hang by the neck until you are dead.”

“That’s a lot more pleasant than what I’ve experienced over the past few years,” Peter remarked. “Really, you’re doing me a favour.”

Peter watched as a figure moved about the crowd, making their way towards the Governor, Commodore Tate and Stiles.

Stiles glanced down at the approaching figure. His eyes were wide with shock as the man tilted up the brim of his hat to reveal his face.

“Derek?” Stiles whispered.

The man nodded curtly before he turned his attention to the Governor.

“Sir,” Derek started. “I would like to thank you for all the opportunities you have given me over the years. And Stiles…”

Stiles met his gaze, watching his eyes twinkle and shift colours in the different lights.

“I should have told you this from the day I met you… I love you.”

Without another word, he turned and ran into the crowd.

The drums of the execution sped up.

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat.

“Men,” Tate called.

Stiles had to think quickly.

“I feel faint,” he gasped before collapsing to the ground.

His father and Tate crowded around him, calling his name and gently fanning him.

The drumming stopped.

Stiles bolted upright.

The executioner pulled the lever and Peter dropped.

Derek burst through the crowd and hurled his sword at the gallows.

The blade sliced through the rope and Peter dropped to the ground. He bounced back to his feet and slid his hands down the blade. He cut his hands free and pulled the sword out of the wooden boards.

The armed guards leapt into action.

Peter and Derek returned blows.

Derek span about, disarming the nearest figures and knocking them to the ground. Others charged in lines. He ducked and rolled out of the way, trying to avoid harming anyone as he fought off their blades.

Peter and Derek were synchronised in their movements, blocking attacks, parrying, disarming men and dodging. They rolled forward and ran towards the parapet, but they weren’t fast enough.

The guards encircled them.

The men stood back to back, spinning around in circles as their blades chimed against the sabres and bayonets that were pointed at them.

Commodore Tate slowly made his way up to their side and said coldly, “I expected revolution but not from you, Mr Hale. Especially since we gave you the benefit of the doubt and dropped charges against you upon our return.”

Derek remained silent.

Tate turned his cold glare to Peter as he continued, “But it is now clear where your alliances are.”

“Derek, he’s a pirate,” Governor Stilinski said almost pleadingly, as if he wished Derek would see the error of his ways and stand down.

“And a good man,” Derek added.

“Then the law remains in place and your punishment is clear,” Tate announced bluntly. “The penalty for piracy is death by hanging.”

“So be it,” Derek resided. “If there’s two coffins at the gallows, I don’t care; I am where I should be: standing between you and Peter. And if I have to die, so be it. At least my conscience will be clear.”

“Three coffins,” Stiles corrected as he shoved past the guards and stood beside Derek.

“Derek is not the only one who stepped out of line,” Stiles reminded him. “So if you’re going to lay down the law then you should do it without hypocrisy.”

Derek tuned his eyes to Stiles and whispered, “Stiles, I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You never did,” Stiles replied in a hushed voice. “I do this of my own accord.”

Tate levelled his eyes with Stiles and asked, “So this is where your heart lies?”

“This is where I stand,” Stiles confirmed, standing his ground. “It is where I have always stood.”

Governor Stilinski stepped forward and turned to Commodore Tate. He spoke lowly, “Henry, perhaps this is one of those times where the wrong action was undertook for the right reason.”

Tate sighed and nodded.

“Men, lower your guns and go about your duties,” Tate ordered

John’s shoulders dropped as he let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Peter took a step forward and piped up, “Well, this has been a far from pleasant experience for everyone here, I’m sure. But I’m actually feeling pretty good about how this all turned out. I think we’ve all arrived in a very special place: spiritually, emotionally, morally… ecumenically.”

Stiles and Derek frowned as they watched Peter’s speech quickly dissolve into madness.

“Oh and, Commodore,” Peter called. “I want you to know that I was rooting for you the whole time. And, Stiles, I’m glad you have Derek, or – more accurately – I’m glad he has you, considering he’s most likely to get in trouble and will need you to pull his ass out of the fire. Derek-” he said abruptly, turning to his nephew. “… nice hat.”

Peter turned with a flurry of fabric as his jacket billowed and he leapt up onto the rocky stone structure atop of the parapet. He turned to face them once more.

“Men, this will be the day you always remember as the day you _almost_ caught Captain Peter Hale.”

A smug smile lit up his face as Peter dove off the clifftop and disappeared among the crashing waves below.

One of the officers scoffed as he said, “He has nowhere to go but back to the gallows.”

But their words were silenced as all eyes were drawn to the distinct bow of a familiar ship that rounded the far shore. The wind caught the black sails as the ship turned about and Peter swam towards it.

“Orders, sir?” the Lieutenant asked, stunned.

Tate was silent.

“Perhaps there are times, as rare as they are, when something as dramatic as piracy is warranted,” John proposed.

Tate turned swiftly and shouted, “Mr Hale.”

Derek let out a soft sigh, defeated as he turned to face the man.

Stiles grabbed his arm, a silent plea begging him to stay.

Derek turned back to him and whispered, “I’ll accept the consequences of my actions.”

Hot tears of fear stung Stiles’ eyes as he watched Derek step over to Commodore Tate’s side.

Tate drew his sword from its sheath and held it before Derek.

“This is a beautiful sword,” the Commodore remarked. “I expect its maker to show the same degree of care and devotion in every aspect of his life.”

Derek nodded. “Thank you.”

One officer chased after Tate as he turned to leave.

“And what about Hale and the _Lunar Eclipse_ , sir?”

Tate thought for a moment and shrugged. “I see no harm in giving him a day’s head start.”

Tate turned and marched away, leaving Derek and Stiles alone on the ridge.

“Do you think he knows…?” Derek asked Stiles, keeping his voice low so they wouldn’t be heard.

Stiles shook his head. “Let them live in ignorance.”

They were silent for a moment before Derek turned to look at Stiles.

“Why me?” he asked the younger man. “Why did you come back for me? Why do you stand by me?”

“Because it’s always been you,” Stiles replied honestly.

Stiles reached forward and gently ran his fingers along the palm of Derek’s hand. He wanted to hold it, but they knew he couldn’t. But it was enough.

Stiles stared at him lovingly, his dark eyes glittering like gold in the glow of the setting sun.

“And you?” Stiles asked. “Why did you after me?”

Derek smiled at him.

“Because it always has been and always will be you.”

 

Across the harbour, Scott and the crew pulled at the thick rope, hoisting Peter on board.

Isaac passed the man a dry coat which Peter took with a grateful smile.

Scott stepped up to the Captain’s side and offered him his favourite trifold leather hat. Peter took it and sat it atop of his head, its familiar weight making him feel more comfortable and confident.

Peter turned his eyes to Lydia who stood proudly behind the wheel. She stepped aside and beckoned him up to the bridge.

Peter smiled as he stepped forward, listening to the sweet thunk his boots made against the wooden deck. He lovingly ran his hand along the carved railing as he mounted the stairs. He stepped across the bridge and stood behind the wheel. He reached forward, feeling the weight of the smooth, vanished wooden wheel. It all felt right.

“The _Lunar Eclipse_ is yours, Captain,” Lydia announced

“And you have no problem sailing with me?” Peter asked, raising his brow at her as his eyes glittered with shock and confusion.

Lydia narrowed her glare. “Don’t for a second think that you have any power over me.”

Peter smirked. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Lydia and Scott nodded to the man and returned to their duties, loosening the sails to catch the wind and fastening ropes or securing cargo.

Peter stood behind the wheel, looking out over at his ship once again.

The _Lunar Eclipse_ was his.

He pulled his compass from his belt and opened it. He watched the needle waver before spinning about uncontrollably.

He had no direction.

He was free.

Slowly and quietly, he began to hum a familiar tune and sing quietly to himself,

 

_We’re rascals, scoundrels, villains, and knaves,_

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

_We’re devils and black sheep, really bad eggs…_

 

He turned his eyes to the horizon. His face was lit by the golden glow of the setting sun as he smirked and sang,

 

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho._

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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